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DEBS  AND   THE 
POETS 


DEBS  AND  THE 
POETS 


N^ 


Edited  by 
RUTH  LE  PRADE 


With  an  Introduction  by 

UPTON  SINCLAIR 


^ 


PUBLISHED  BY 

UPTON  SINCLAIR 

PASADENA.  CAL. 


Copyright,   1920 

BY 

RUTH  I,K  PRADE 


9653 
(To  E.  V.  D.) 

BY  WITTER  BYNNER 

Nine  six  five  three, 

Numbers  heard  in  heaven. 
Numbers  whispered  breathlessly, 

Mystical  as  seven. 
Numbers  lifted  among  stars 

To  acclaim  and  hail 
Another  heart  behind  the  bars. 

Another  God  in  jail, 
Tragic  in  their  symmetry. 

Crucified  and  risen, 
Nine  six  five  three, 

From  Atlanta  Prison. 


INTRODUCTION 


THE  United  States  has  an  old  man  in  prison 
in  the  Federal  Penitentiary  of  Atlanta.  The 
government  regards  this  old  man  as  a  common 
felon,  and  treats  him  as  such;  shaves  his  head, 
puts  a  prison  suit  upon  him,  feeds  him  upon 
prison  food,  and  locks  him  in  a  steel-barred 
cell  fourteen  consecutive  hours  out  of  each 
twenty-four. 

But  it  appears  that  there  are  a  great  many 
people  in  the  United  States  and  other  countries 
who  do  not  regard  this  old  man  as  a  common 
felon;  on  the  contrary,  they  regard  him  as  a 
hero,  a  martyr,  even  a  saint.  It  appears  that 
the  list  of  these  people  includes  some  of  the 
greatest  writers  and  the  greatest  minds  of 
Europe  and  America.  These  persons  have  been 
moved  to  indignation  by  the  treatment  of  the 
old  man  and  they  have  expressed  their  indig- 
nation. Ruth  Le  Prade  has  had  the  idea  of  col- 
lecting their  utterances.  Here  are  poems  by 
twenty-four  poets,  and  letters  from  a  score  or 
two  of  other  writers. 

If  you  do  not  know  'Gene  Debs,  you  may  be 
interested  to  read  what  such  men  have  written 
about  him.  If  you  do  know  him  and  love  him 
— everyone  who  knows  him  loves  him,  even  his 
jailers — ^you  will  find  this  little  book  of  use  in 
opening  the  eyes  of  others.    The  compiler  of 


6  INTRODUCTION 

the  book  has  given  her  services  without  roy- 
alty, and  the  pubhsher  gives  his  without  profit. 
Everything  over  the  actual  cost  of  printing  and 
mailing  the  book  will  go  to  advertising  it,  as 
part  of  the  campaign  now  being  con- 
ducted by  those  Americans  who  wish  their 
country  to  return  to  its  old  traditions  of  free- 
dom of  speech  and  of  the  press,  and  to  abandon 
the  evil  custom  of  jailing  men  for  expression  of 
opinion. 

Upton  Sinclair. 


From  H.  G.  Wells 

"Liberty  Enlightening  the  World"  and  behind 
it  Debs  in  prison.  I  cannot  understand  Amer- 
ica, and  I  am  afraid  to  come  over  and  examine 
the  paradox  on  the  spot.  I  visited  McQueen  in 
Trenton  in  1906,  and  it  kind  of  gave  me  a  shy- 
ness of  America — being  something  of  a  radical 
myself. 


From  George  Bernard  Shaw 

(By  cable  to  the  New  York  Call.) 

Clearly  the  White  House  is  the  only  safe 
place  for  an  honest  man  like  Debs. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Barbusse,  Henri 46 

Bartholdi,  Frederic  Auguste 46 

BicKNEiiL,  George 31 

BoGART,  Gut 35 

Bynner,  Witter       3 

Carpenter^  Edward       41 

Cleghorit,  Sara  N 40 

Cooke,  Edmund  Vance 9 

DE  FoRD^  Miriam  Allen 24 

DE  Witt,  Samuel  A 13 

Eastman,  Max 43 

Field^  Eugene , 42 

Field,  Sara  Bard 33 

GiLMAN,  Charlotte  Perkins 45 

Harris,  Ellis  B 21 

Hibner^  George  F 45 

Holmes^  John  Haynes 44 

Housman,  Laurence 41 

Hughan,  Jessie  Wallace 23 

Hurt,  Walter 15 

Jordan^  David  Starr 48 

Keller,  Helen 42 

King,  Murray  E 11 

Leonard,  William  Ellery 26 

Le  Prade,  Ruth 50 

LOVEJOY,  lOwEN  R 44 

7 


8  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Mackaye,    Perct 10 

Markham,  Edwin 43 

Oppekheim,  James 17 

Phifer^  Lincoln       22 

PowTS,  John  Cowpeb 18 

KiiiEY^  James  Whitcomb 12,  40 

RoBSON^  Douglas      94 

Sandburg,  Carl 39 

Sassoon,  Siegfried 40 

Scott,  John  Milton 37 

Shaw,  George  Bernard 6 

Sinclair,   Upton       47 

SwiNTON,  John 44 

ToRRENCE,  Ridgelet       49 

Traubel,  Horace      42 

Untermeyer,  Louis 14 

Wallace,  Alfred  Russel 40 

Wells,  H.  G "  ....    6 

Wood,  Charles  Erskine  Scott 81 

Wood,  Clement 19 

Zangwill,   Israel 41 

Anonymous 29,  32 


EUGENE 

BY  EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 

Standing  like  a  shaft  of  light, 
Cloud  by  day  and  fire  by  night, 
For  the  thing  you  think  is  right. 
Dominating  all  your  scene, 
None  may  daunt  you,  brave  Eugene! 

We  may  bind  and  make  you  mute, 
We  may  stripe  you  in  the  suit 
Of  the  meanest  felon.     Aye, 
We  may  scourge  and  crucify. 
But  your  soul,  sublime,  serene, 
Who  can  crucify,  Eugene? 

Nay,  I  am  not  of  your  Cause 
I  hold  firm  we  dare  not  pause. 
Till  we  sear  the  fangs  and  claws 
Of  the  Beast;  that  Devil's  own 
Squatting  on  the  Potsdam  throne. 

Yet,  altho'  I  flout  your  clan, 
Tho'  I  disbelieve  your  plan. 
Answer  me  who  will  or  can — 
Who  out-mans  you  as  a  Man? 

Humble,  homely,  lank  and  lean. 
Heart  unveiled  and  conscience  clean. 
Kindly-minded,  clear  and  keen; 
Pomp  and  Pilates  seem  but  mean 
Shadowed  by  your  soul,  Eugene. 

9 


10      DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 


THE  THREE  GUARDSMEN  AT  ATLANTA 

BY   PERCY   MACKAYE 

Three  guardsmen  share  the  cell  where  Debs  is 
bound — 

John  Brown,  Abe  Lincoln  and  Lloyd  Garrison. 
Old  John  he  says:  "My  body's  underground, 

But  still  I  guess  my  soul  goes  marching  on." 
And  William  Lloyd,  baring  his  throat,  says  he : 

"Here's  where  they  aimed  a  noose  at  my  neck- 
bone; 
But  now  in  Boston  where  they  sculpture  me 

No  gibbet  hangs  my  efiigy  in  stone." 
Then  Abe  he  says,  while  his  wan  wrinkles  crack 

A  pensive,  patient  smile,  says  he:   "Friend 
Debs, 
Once  more  a  man  of  peace  must  bear  the  rack 

Until  the  rolling  tide  of  rancor  ebbs. 
And  ignorance  try  once  more  to  silence  one 
Who  dares  to  pray  aloud — Malice  toward  none!" 


DEBS   AND    THE   POETS  11 


DEBS,  TH^  FIGHTER 

BY  MURRAY  E.   KING 

He  fights  as  one  who  feels  the  hurt, 
The  hurt  that  he  perforce  must  deal; 

He  strikes  as  one  who  feels  that  he 

Must  deal  the  blow  that  he  must  feel; 

The  tender  Debs  I  see  alway — 

The  looming  figure  of  a  man  at  bay. 

A  man  at  bay,  who  still  must  fight 

And  serve  the  cause  by  thrust  and  blow- 

The  cause  that  bids  him  thrust  and  strike, 
In  spite  of  tenderness  of  foe. 

And  makes  him  love  the  foe  he  strikes. 

And  take  the  pain  of  every  blow. 

I  see  his  tender,  pitying  hands. 

Outstretching  for  the  hearts  of  men; 

I  feel  the  pleading  of  his  voice, 
The  tragedy  of  love  and  pain; 

Of  faith  so  strong,  of  heart  so  good — 

Herald  of  dawn  and  brotherhood. 


12  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

THEM  FLOWERS 

BY   JAMES   WHITCOMB   RILEY 

(To  My  Good  Friend,  Eugene  V.  Debs) 

"Take  a  feller  'ats  sick  and  laid  up  on  the  shelf. 

All  shaky,  and  ga'nted  and  pore, 
And  all  so  knocked  out  he  can't  handle  hisself 

With  a  stiff  upper  lip  any  more; 
Shet  him  up  all  alone  in  the  gloom  of  a  room. 

As  dark  as  the  tomb,  and  as  grim. 
And  then  take  and  send  him  some  roses  in  bloom. 

And  you  kin  have  fun  out  o'  him ! 

You've  seed  him,  'fore  now,  when  his  liver  was 
sound. 

And  his  appetite  notched  like  a  saw, 
A  chaffin'  you,  mebbe,  for  romancin'  round 

With  a  big  posey  bunch  in  yer  paw; 
But  you  ketch  him,  say,  when  his  health  is  away. 

And  he's  flat  on  his  back  in  distress. 
And  then  you  can  trot  out  your  little  bokay 

And  not  be  insulted,  I  guess! 

You  see,  it's  hke  this,  what  his  weaknesses  is. 

Them  flowers  makes  him  think  of  the  days 
Of  his  innocent  youth,  and  that  mother  o'  his, 

And  the  roses  she  used  to  raise; 
So  here  all  alone  with  the  roses  you  send, 

Bein'  sick  and  all  trimbly  and  faint; 
My  eyes  is — ^my  eyes  is — my  eyes  is — old  friend. 

Is  a  leakin' — I'm  blamed  ef  they  ain't!" 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  13 


TO  EUGENE  DEBS 

BY  S.  A.  DE  WITT 

If  you  must  go, 

Dragged  by  the  mad  tide's  undertow, 

We  will  not  sit  like  mourners  at  a  wake; 

No  Woe  will  rend,  nor  will  a  heartstring  break ; 

For  those  who  followed  you  in  glad  belief. 

Have  learned  how  one  can  grow 

Too  glorious  for  grief. 

Proud  will  we  sing 

The  red  anthem  of  your  conquering, 

Content  that  men  have  made  no  prison  hole 

So  dark  that  it  could  dim 

The  radiance  of  your  soul. 


14      DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 


THE  GARLAND  FOR  DEBS 

BY  LOUIS    UNTERMEYER 

Here,  in  our  easy-chairs,  we  sit  and  choose 
Words  for  a  garland  woven  of  our  praise; 
The  fluent  metaphor,  the  striking  phrase, 

Inserted  gracefully,  are  what  we  use.  .  .  . 

And  there  he  stands,  and  silently  reviews 
The  bitter-scented  nights,  the  flowerless  days. 
Thinking  of  all  the  many  little  ways 

A  man  may  win  all  that  he  seems  to  lose. 

And  then — this  verbal  wreath  ....  perfumed 
....  precise — 

Pathetic  incongruity.  ...  It  adorns 
A  head  too  scarred  and  knotted  to  be  nice. 

This  floral  tribute  prettifies  the  scorns 
And  outrage.  Something  plainer  should  suffice — 

Some  simple,  patriotic  crown  of  thorns. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  15 

"MORNIN',  'GENE!" 

BY  WALTER  HURT 

When  a  chap  has  lost  his  grip, 
An'  Fate  has  'im  on  the  hip, 
Er  he's  trekked  the  trails  o'  sin 
Till  his  feet  are  tangled  in 
Tribbelation's  toughest  webs. 
What  he  needs  is  Eugene  Debs 
To  reorganize  'im,  fer 
'Gene's  the  champyin  comferter. 
At  sich  times,  ef  he  should  meet 
Debs  a-comin'  down  the  street. 
Then  the  clouds  o'  trouble  roll 
From  his  over-shaddered  soul, 
An'  the  skies  are  all  serene 
As  he  murmurs,  "Momin',  'Gene!" 

As  a  docter  fer  our  grief, 
'Gene  is  prompt  to  give  relief. 
An'  he  alius,  when  a  pore 
Feller's  spirit's  worn  an'  sore. 
Diagnoses   double-quick 
That  his  heart  is  shorely  sick; 
An'  he  has  the  kindest  way. 
While  the  things  that  he  will  say 
Are  the  gentlest  ever  heard. 
An'  there's  healin'  in  each  word 
As  it  hits  the  ailin'  place. 
Like  a  dose  o'  savin'  grace. 
Till  yer  pain's  fergotten  clean 
An'  ye  holler,  "Mornin',  'Gene!" 


16  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

When  yer  lips  f  ergit  to  smile, 

'Gene  kin  fully  rickoncile 

Feelin's  that  are  torture- tost; 

All  yer  sorrers  then  are  lost 

In  the  grasp  o'  that  great  hand 

Whose  impulse  we  understand, 

Reached  frum  love's  unf athomed  pit — 

An'  the  uttermost  of  it. 

Fer  his  greetin's  plant  perfume 

Till  a  garden  seems  to  bloom 

In  Life's  desert  of  despair, 

Spreadin'  sweetness  ever'where, 

An'  we  glimpse  oases  green 

While  we  answer,  "Mornin',  'Gene!" 

In  the  hearts  of  other  men 

It  is  ALLUS  mornin'  when 

Debs  kin  cheer  'em  on  their  way 

With  a  lovin'  hand,  an'  lay 

All  his  hopes  before  their  feet 

Like  a  path  o'  promise,  sweet 

With  the  flowers  o'  faith  an'  strength 

Blossomin'  along  its  length 

Though  the  journey  leads  'em  soon 

To  life's  fadin'  afternoon. 

An'  I  hope  at  heaven's  gate. 

Should  I  reach  it  ruther  late. 

As  I  peep  the  bars  between. 

Thus  to  greet  'im,  "Mornin',  'Gene!" 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  17 

DEBS 

BY   JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

Four  great  lovers  rose  in  America.  .  .  . 

One  was  hung: 

One  was  shot: 

One  lived  in  solitude: 

And  one  was  jailed.  .  .  . 


The  prairies,  the  valleys  and  the  mountains  of 
the   ages   are    remembered    because    of 
great  lovers  who  were  there.  .  .  . 
Drums  and  flags  lay  the  Caesars  to  rest, 
But  the  muffled  drums  roll  by,  dying,  and  we  let 

them  die.  .  .  . 
When  the  great  lover  dies,  in  silence. 
His  grave  becomes  the  fragrant  mouth  of  an 

ever-swelling  song: 
These  are  the  songs  by  which  we  live. 
These  are  the  suns  that  shine  on  us,  stars  and 

moons  that  sprinkle  our  nights. 
Winds   of   reviving   May,   rains   of   dry   sum- 
mer. .  .  . 


'Gene  Debs,  this  fragment  song  for  you. 
Living  great  lover  through  whom  America  lives. 


18      DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 


TO  EUGENE  DEBS 

BY  JOHN  COWPER  POWYS 

Away  with  him !  He  utters  the  word  "Love." 

Dark-souled  incendiary,  madman  forlorn, 
He  dares  to  put  humanity  above 

Discretion.   Better  never  have  been  born 
Than  thus  to  have  offended !  Learn,  good  brother. 

That  Love  and  Pity  are  forgotten  fables 
Told  by  the  drowsy  years  to  one  another 

With  nothing  in  them  to  supply  our  tables. 
These  are  the  days  of  hungry  common  sense. 

Millions  of  men  have  died  to  bring  these 
days; 
And  more  must  die  ere  these  good  days  go 
hence; 

For  God  moves  still  in  most  mysterious  ways. 
Ah  Debs,  Debs,  Debs,  you  are  out- weighed,  out- 
priced, 
These  are  the  days  of  Caesar,  not  of  Christ — 
And  yet — suppose — when  all  was  done  and  said 
There  were  a  Resurrection  from  the  Dead! 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  19 

THE  HEART  IN  JAIL 

BY   CLEMENT   WOOD 

Once  there  was  a  carpenter, 

A  Nazarene. 
Ancient,  godly  rich  men 

Picked  him  clean. 
Folks  say  that  Jesus 

Suffered  like  'Gene. 

Martyred,  murdered  Jesus 

Had  to  face 
Pilate.  .  .  .  Judas.  .  .  . 

Not  the  harsher  race 
Of  godly  modern  rich  men 

In  their  ruling  place. 

Martyred,  murdered  Jesus 

Had  to  be 
Spat  upon  and  tortured. 

And  hung  on  a  tree.  ... 
He  was  spared  a  Federal 

Penitentiary ! 

Three  bloody  days — and 

Hammer  and  nail 
Ended  his  pitiful. 

Painful  tale.  ... 
'Gene's  body's  rotting 

Still  in  jail. 


20  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

And  the  heart  of  Jesus 
Sickened  and  died. 

But  the  heart  of  'Gene  Debs 
Buried  inside 

Grows  Hke  a  hill  flower. 
Swells  like  a  tide — 

Swells  like  a  vast  tide 

Out  of  the  sea, 
Bringing  weary  slave-men 

Victory ! 
Ending  ancient  horror. 

Setting  man  free ! 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  21 


DEBS  THE  DREAMER 

BY  ELLIS  B.  HARRIS 

A  dreamer?    Yes,  a  dreamer,  but 

His  dreams  are  all  for  you; 
He  dreams  the  dreams  that  nations  dream. 

And  nations'  dreams  come  true; 
He  dreams  the  dreams  that  sowers  dream 

When  sun  and  rain  assure 
A  field  of  silken-tasseled  com 

From  seed  that  must  mature. 
His  ship  sails  on  a  sunlit  sea — 

A  tide  that  never  ebbs — 
For  country,  home  and  liberty. 

Come  voyage  on  with  Debs. 


22  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

DEBS  IS  A  FRIEND 

BY  LINCOLN   PHIFER 

Some  call  him  great;  but  greater  than  that  is — 
Than  fame,  or  place,  or  deed  that  has  no 
end — 

Debs  has  a  glory  brighter  than  all  this — 
He  is  a  friend. 

Some  call  him  good;  but  better  than  the  best. 
Than  haloed  truth  none  love  or  comprehend. 

Is  his  warm  pulse  beat  and  his  "infinite  zest" — 
He  is  a  friend. 

Some  call  him  wise,  but  wiser  than  all  else 
His  instinct  is,  which  flashes  to  the  end, 

Warming  the  soul  till  all  discordance  melts — 
He  is  a  friend. 

Some  call  him  eloquent;  that  is  but  part, 

The  lesser  part,  though  to  it  all  things  bend; 

He  weeps  and  laughs  with  us — more   than   all 
art — 
He  is  a  friend. 

Not  my  friend  only,  but  the  friend  of  all; 

Debs  fills  the  word  that  fills  the  world — will 
spend 
Himself  for  any,  though  with  faintest  call — 

He  is  a  friend. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  23 


EUGENE  V.  DEBS 

BY  JESSIE  WALLACE  HUGHAN 

If  he  had  wept  and  kissed  the  hand  that  smote ; 
If  he,  the  rebel,  had  inclined  the  knee, 
And  cried,  "I  yield  me  to  your  gracious  mercy! 
Spare  but  my  freedom  and  I  sin  no  more" — 
We   might   have   pardoned   him   his   grievous 

crime. 
But,  lo!   he  stood  erect  and  unsubdued, 
And  flung  defiance  from  his  three  score  years: 
"I  yield  not  till  oppression's  self  shall  yield; 
I  ask  no  freedom  till  the  world  is  free; 
I  crave  no  mercy  till  the  prison  door 
Swings  out    for  all  the    thousands    you    have 

bound!" 
If  he  had  cringed  and  kissed  the  hand  that 

smote, 
We  might  have  pardoned    him    his    grievous 

crime. 


24  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

'GENE  IN  PRISON 

BY   MIRIAM   ALLEN   DE  FORD 

When  'Gene  went  into  prison, 
Head  high  and  heart  afire, 

The  bolts  were  turned  upon  him 
By  men  with  souls  for  hire. 

Oh,  'Gene,  where  were  we  then  who  stood 

So  often  in  the  rain, 
Waiting  for  doors  to  open  up, 
__  To  hear  your  voice  again? 

We  babblers,  who  made  loud  applause 

To  Listen  to  the  words 
You  flung  aloft  so  generously. 

Like  flocks  of  eager  birds! 

We  walk  the  land  free  men  today; 

Our  carpet  is  the  grass, 
Our  ceiling  is  the  endless  sky. 

Our  walls  the  winds  that  pass. 

But  you  who  spoke  for  all  of  us. 

So  steadfast  and  serene. 
So  haloed  with  the  rebels'  fire. 

So  simple,  and  so  keen, 

You  menace  to  the  common  wrong. 

You  harbinger  of  right — 
The  hireling  men  have  throttled  you. 

Hysterical  with  fright. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  25 

But  still  they  cannot  sleep  of  nights; 

The  cell  is  all  to  small, 
The  bars  too  feeble  in  their  clutch, 

Too  thin  the  narrow  wall. 

Your  lean,  gaunt  body,  that  is  theirs; 

But,  trembling,  they  can  see 
Your  unchained  spirit  walk  abroad, 

Magnificently  free! 

You  walk  abroad  with  Liebknecht, 
You  two  whom  none  could  bind; 

And  Comrade  Jesus  walks  beside; 
And  we — we  throng  behind. 


26      DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 
THE  OLD  AGITATOR 

BY  WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 

So  they  could  do  it  after  all.  .  .  . 
They  locked  him  up.  .  .  .  the  good  old  man.  .  .  . 
Behind  the  grated  window  and  the  wall.  .  .  . 
Stole  in  upon  his  sick-bed  ....  whisked  him  off 
Before  the  rumor  and  the  wrath  began.  .  .  . 
Without  one  woodland  flower  of  early  spring 
Pressed  to   his  big  palm  by   some  workman's 
child. 

And  said  the  honest  warden,  welcoming: 
"You're  rather  rangy,  Mr.  Debs,  and  tall".  .  .  . 
Embarrassed  by  a  momentary  cough.  .  .  . 
"But  we  will  fit  you  out  as  best  we  can." 
And  the  great  Proletarian 
He  straightened  up  and  smiled. 

Ten  years.  ...  so  let  it  be.  .  .  .  He  was  not 

wise.     .     . 
Well  shut  he  would  not  ....  could  not  .... 

keep 
Those  lips,  close-shorn  and  thin. 
Below  those  keen  unflinching  eyes. 
And  just  above  the  unbearded  fighting  chin. 
Those  lips  with  furrows  either  side  so  deep 
From  mirth  and  sorrow  and  unresting  sleep. 
And  so  they  deemed  it  fit 
He  learn  (like  Jeremiah)  silence  in  a  pit 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  27 

So  let  it  be.  ...  a  state  must  have  firm  laws 

And  watchful  citizens  that  balk 

Against  a  wagging  tongue.  .  .  . 

And  one  grown  gray  and  gaunt  with  too  much 

talk, 
Who  has  long  since  forgotten  when  to  pause, 
Or  how  to  please, 

May  trip  at  last.  .  .  .  even  in  democracies.  .  .  . 
And  chiefly,  if  he  tamper  with  the  young, 

And  worship,  not  the  old  divinities.  .  .  . 

And  when  the  charge  is  read  him,  clause  by 

clause. 
And  he  replies  with  scanty  penitence. 
He'll  find  (as  found  that  worthy  man 
At  whose  incessant  lips  once  Athens  took  off  ense) 
The  gentry  of  his  latter  audience 
Most  ominously  niggard  of  applause.  .  .  . 
And  though  even  then  he  talk  ....  as  talk  he 

can.  ... 
He  lights  (like  Socrates)  on  no  defense.  .  .  . 
Except  reiteration  of  his  cause. 

So  be  it.  .  .  .  his  was  fair  trial  and  due  appeal 
Under  those  just,  majestic  guarantees 
That  give  the  stars-and-stripes  their  destinies 
Over  a  free  (but  ordered)  common-weal ! 
That  incorruptible  and  austere  court 
Of  old  men  to  this  old  man  made  report: 
They  made  report,  this  row  of  staunch  patri- 
cians. 
Unto  the  bald,  lone,  tall  man  of  the  plebs; 
They  bore  no  grudge,  they  took  no  gold, 


28  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

They  may  have  loved  him.  .  .  .  for  they  too 

were  old; 
But,  seated  in  their  ancient  nine  positions, 
They     sealed     the     prison     sunset-years     for 

Debs.  .  .  . 
As  vindicators  of  those  stern  traditions 
That  tore  from  black  Dred  Scott  his  freeman's 

shirt. 
And  locked  free  child  in  factory  dark  and  dirt. 

So  let  it  be.  .  .  .  there's  nothing  for  sur- 
prise. .  .  . 

The  thing's  so  old  ....  so  wearisomely 
grim.  .  .  . 

Nothing  for  grief  .  .  .  except  the  shame.  .  .  . 

Grieve  for  the  nation,  not  for  him.  .  .  . 

For  he  has  but  begun  his  enterprise, 

And  in  this  silence  finds  the  lips  of  flame. 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  29 

THE  MARTYR 
(anonymous) 

Ye  have  made  martyrs  for  me, 

Gods  of  the  false  and  true; 
Ye  have  set  great  souls  free 

And  lighted  our  lamps  anew ! 
Ye  and  your  priests  have  killed 

Those  who  defied  your  ranks; 
I  drink  of  the  blood  ye  have  spilled — 

I  drink  and  I  give  you  thanks! 

Down  through  the  centuries,  strung 

On  crucifix,  gibbet  and  pyre. 
Your  scarlet  pictures  are  hung 

Of  those  who  have  dared  your  fire! 
The  Christ,  with  His  hands  outthrust — 

His  dead  by  the  Tiber's  banks — 
And  now  the  arena  is  dust, 
For  the  Martyr  I  give  you  thanks  1 

For  every  heretic  burned. 

For  every  heart  ye  have  split, 
For  every  key  ye  have  turned, 

A  million  lamps  have  ye  lit! 
And,  lo!  as  the  cities  that  flame 

Where   the   blackened   streams   have   their 
banks. 
So  your  dead  call  us  each  by  name — 

For  the  Martyr  I  give  you  thanks ! 


30  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

Has  your  crucifix  murdered  Ciirist? 

Have  your  jails  swallowed  up  one  dream? 
Have  Spain  and  the  stake  sufficed 

To  darken  one  lamplight's  gleam? 
I  give  you  the  world  today; 

Will  ye  gaze  on  the  age-long  ranks? 
Is  it  Christ,  is  it  Debs,  ye  would  slay? 

For  the  Martyr  I  give  you  thanks ! 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  31 


HERE  COMES  A  MAN 

BY  GEORGE  BICKNELL 

Here  comes  a  man  with  one  free  call; 
He  shouts  aloud  nor  does  he  fear 
The  foolish  threat  or  deafened  ear; 

Nor  does  he  heed  who  would  enthrall. 

Here  comes  a  man  with  love  for  men. 

As  pure  and  broad  as  boundless  space; 
He  gathers  light  from  every  race. 

And  sheds  it  on  the  World  again. 

His  joy  is  not  alone  for  self; 

His  life  makes  gladsome  whom  he  meets 
By  turning  bitter  gall  to  sweets 

And  shaming  every  show  of  pelf. 

Here  comes  a  man  whose  like  is  rare; — 
A  kindred  heart  for  hearts  that  bleed : 
A  refuge  in  dark  hours  of  need : 

A  burdened  World  his  greatest  care. 

Then  hail  to  him  who  loves  so  well; 
The  Brother  of  the  poor,  the  Friend 
Of  them  that  labor  without  end, 

And  hail  the  Dawn  he  dares  foretell! 


32  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 


DEBS  ON  TRIAL 
(anonymous) 

He  stood  apart  in  that  great  room, 
Enveloped  in  the  silent  gloom, 
While  all  around  expectantly. 
The  court  throng  waited  for  his  plea. 

With  head  erect,  superb  he  stood. 
Whose  thoughts  were  for  the  common  good, 
Accused,  yet  not  with  manner  cowed. 
He  faced,  serene,  the  restless  crowd. 

He  spoke,  whose  "base  disloyalty" 
Was  love  of  all  humanity. 
A  giant  soul  from  whom  no  bars 
Could  shut  the  glim'ring  of  the  stars. 

On  trial!  Accused!  Maligned!  What  for? 
Because  he  stood  opposed  to  war; 
Because  he  loved  mankind  too  well 
To  have  them  tossed  into  war's  hell. 

Not  his  the  guilt  nor  his  the  crime. 
Whose  purposes  were  so  sublime; 
No,  they  who  failed  to  comprehend 
In  public  conscience  stand  condemned. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  33 

TO  EUGENE  DEBS 

BY    SARA   BARD    FIELD 

A  thousand  centuries  to  come  smile  back  on  you. 

Already,  Debs,  they  gravely  carve  your  seat 

High  on  the  rocks  of  Time  where  the  defiant  few 

Of  all  the  ages  meet 

And  hold  high  converse  to  the  beat 

Of  the  stern  sea  below,  drowning  the  millions 

who 
Have  crucified  their  Christs,  nor  ever  knew 
The  bleeding  brow  and  feet. 

No,  Debs,  I  cannot  think  of  you  in  prison. 

Although  I  know  they  hold  your  body  there. 

But  always,  as  when  you  shot  to  me  a  vision. 

Bending  above  the  crowd  whose  hungry  stare 

Made  you  compassionate,  and  yet  so  wise 

In  your  compassion.     Rarely  to  a  man 

Is  given   the  sensitive  heart  that  feels  Love's 

pain,  the  eyes 
That  hold  Love's  tears,  and  Mind  to  make  the 

Plan 
By  which  Love  may  appear  in  something  more 
Than  merely  sops  and  pity  for  the  Poor. 

We  are  the  lonely  ones — we  who  confess 
The  Truth  that  jailed  you,  but  have  not  been 
found 


34  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

Worthy  to  suffer  for  it.    All  brave  loveliness 

Of  human  life  has  taken  camping  ground 

In  cells  like  yours 

And  all  the  cowards  and  complaisant  bores, 

The  cruel,  selfish,  dull  and  ignorant  mass. 

Are  left  outside  with  us  who  have  no  prison  pass. 

I  like  to  think  that  long  before  you  paid 

The  price  of  prison  for  the  right  to  love. 

You  seemed  to  us  like  Jesus,  and  you  made 

Many  a  tale  from  ancient  Galilee 

Rise  from  the  printed  page  in  warm  reality: 

"Of  such  as  these  are  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven — " 

You  know  that  scene  well,  Debs,  when  Christ 

was  given 
The  little  children  whom  he  loved;  and  knew 
Must  build  what  only  Innocence  can  do — 

Well,   once  in   Cleveland,   when   I  heard  you 

speak, 
I  sat  upon  the  platform  with  my  little  son 
Upon  my  lap,  and  when  your  speech  was  done 
You  turned  and  laid  your  big  hand  on  his  cheek 
And  said  "My  friend,  such  lads  as  this 
Must  finish  what  we  old  folks  have  begun — " 
The  crowd  was  surging  round  you  but  a  kiss 
You  reverently  gave  him — Debs,  that  little  lad 
Cherished  till  death  the  words  that  you  had  said 
And  loved  to  think  your  hand  had  touched  his 

head. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  35 


MY  BIG  BROTHER  'GENE 

BY  GUY  BOGART 

I  hail  you,  'Gene, 
Grand  old  gray  warrior, 
Poet  prophet 
Of  labor  and  liberty. 

Companion  gift  with  Jim  Riley 
Of  pregnant  Hoosier  soil  to  the  world. 
With  Emerson,  Lincoln,  Whitman, 
You  take  your  place  in  humanity's  processional 
of  prophets. 

Your  life  is  a  triumphant  hymn  set  to  music  of 

service; 
From  your  lips  flow  reminiscent  beauties, 
Spun  from  golden  memory-threads  of  love  and 

service. 
You  clasped  my  hand  and  I  thrilled  as  at  touch 

of  a  sweetheart; 
The  love  of  all  humanity  surges  through  your 

handclasp — 
Yours  is  the  universal  passion,  the  far-visioned 

perception  of  the  prophet. 


36  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

O  the  agony  of  your  stooped  shoulders, 
Bowed  by  burdens  borne  for  your  brothers. 
You  stand  and  reach  those  long  arms  as  though 
To  gather  to  your  mighty  heart  every  worker. 
Unstinted,  ceaseless  love. 
Poured  out  upon  your  comrades — 

Here  is  the  soul  of  the  ages. 

Heart  of  humanity. 

Vision  of  the  seer; 

O  mover  of  mighty  forces. 

Voice  of  the  proletariat, 

My  Neighbor,  Brother,  Comrade ! 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  37 

A  FRAGMENT 

BY  JOHN   MILTON   SCOTT 

Imprisoned — 

He  who  would  speak  but  to  bless, 
Whose  hands  would  rebuild  the  world 
In  the  love  and  the  beauty  of  Christ.  .  .  . 

Lover  and  neighbor 

In  every  cell  of  his  brain, 

Lover  and  neighbor 

In  every  act  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

Dear  Comrade,  whom  our  wisdom  honors, 

Whom  our  hearts  love. 

When  the  Human  Beauty  is  builded. 

Its  walls  ashine 

With  the  fair  and  lovely  faces  of  comrades. 

Its  dome  showing  the  stars 

The  blue  skies  and  bright  suns 

Of  the  love  behind  our  love. 

Your  name  will  show  high 

With  its  heroes  and  saints. 

Its  servants  and  martyrs; 

And  one  who  has  ached 

In  each  pang  of  its  building 

And  sung  in  each  lifted  stone 

Will  call  out  your  name,  "Eugene," 

Sweet  as  your  mother  once  called  it, 

"'Gene!    'Gene!" 

More  cheerful  than  playmates  called  it, 

"'Gene!   'Gene! 


38  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

Come  up  here  beside  me, 

For  you  are  worthy, 

Inasmuch  as  you  did 

Your  good  deeds  of  love 

To  the  least  of  my  brethren, 

My  toilers  and  poor — 

Come  up  here  beside  me. 

For  it  was  for  such  as  you 

My  father  laid  the  foundations  of  His  earth 

In  justice,  in  mercy,  in  love." 

And  the  brakeman  of  Terre  Haute 
And  the  Carpenter  of  Nazareth 
Will  sit  together  at  the  Feast  of  Love 
In  the  Human  Temple  Beautiful; 
And  our  hearts  will  be  glad  to  see  them  to- 
gether. 


TRIBUTES   TO  DEBS 


From  Carl  Sandburg 

We  do  not  have  to  go  to  France  for  the  best 
soul  of  France.  We  have  only  to  go  to  our  fed- 
eral prison  in  Atlanta  if  we  wish  to  meet  a  liv- 
ing incarnation,  a  living  human  flame,  of  all  the 
France  which  spoke  through  Victor  Hugo  and 
which  earlier  was  the  inspiration  of  Tom  Jef- 
ferson and  Ben  Franklin. 

An  ignorant  government  in  America  has 
locked  up  'Gene  Debs  as  an  ignorant  govern- 
ment in  France  exiled  Hugo  to  a  sea  island. 
The  incarceration  of  Debs  took  place  after  the 
armistice  and  after  the  President  spoke  to  the 
Congress  saying,  "Thus  the  war  comes  to  an 
end." 

The  head  of  a  mountain  eagle — a  lean  tra- 
jectory of  a  physical  figure — a  long,  bony,  quiv- 
ering finger  with  terrific  affirmations  of  what 
The  People  can  do  any  time  they  get  a  dream  of 
doing — a  face  that  registers  social  passion  and 
personal  prayer — this  is  'Gene  Debs,  caged, 
barred,  effectually  shackled  in  a  federal  prison 
in  Atlanta. 

"What  can  they  do  to  me?  I've  lived  and  seen 
everything;  now  I'm  sixty- three  years  old  and 
just  a  lot  of  bones   with   skin   stretched   over 

39 


40  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

them."    So  Debs  spoke  to  a  lawyer  before  his 
trial. 

The  holding  of  Debs,  caged,  barred,  effectual- 
ly shackled  in  our  national  hoosegow  in  Georgia 
draws  commentary  not  so  much  on  the  plight  of 
Debs — he  can  stand  it — as  on  the  nation.  To  a 
nation  that  speaks  in  a  Christ  vocabulary,  we 
might  almost  say,  "If  the  light  that  is  in  thee  be 
darkness,  then  how  great  is  that  darkness." 

From  James  Whitcomb  Riley 

And  there's  'Gene  Debs — a  man  'at  stands 
And  jest  holds  out  in  his  two  hands 
As  warm  a  heart  as  ever  beat 
Betwixt  here  and  the  Jedgment  Seat. 

From  Sara  N.  Cleghorn 

I  wish,  when  the  coat  wears  out  that  Eugene 
Debs  wore  at  his  trial,  I  could  have  a  little  piece 
of  it  to  keep  in  my  Bible. 

From  Alfred  Russel  Wallace 

"Eugene  V.  Debs  is  a  great  man.  With  a  few 
more  such  to  teach  and  organize  the  people  the 
cause  of  justice  must  prevail." 

From  Siegfried  Sassoon 

I  do  not  know  Eugene  Debs  but  I  honor  his 
name,  and  loathe  the  system  which  has  perse- 
cuted him. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  41 

From  Edward  Carpenter 

It  is  a  splendid  idea  to  put  up  Eugene  Debs 
for  President.  He  is  about  the  best  man  in 
America.    All  success  to  him! 


From  Israel  Zangwill 

I  regret  exceedingly  that  though  I  am  con- 
stantly coming  upon  references  to  the  martyr- 
dom of  Eugene  V.  Debs,  I  do  not  know  what  par- 
ticular act  of  righteousness  has  landed  him  in 
gaol.-  But  from  the  admiration  which  he  has 
excited  in  the  breasts  of  many  Americans  whom 
I  admire,  I  have  an  uneasy  suspicion  that  he 
ought  to  change  places  with  his  judges. 


From  Laurence  Housman 

Eugene  Debs  is  only  known  to  me  through  his 
influence  on  others.  I  take  stock  of  the  people 
who  love  him;  and  the  people  who  hate  him; 
and  both  alike  are  the  best  possible  guarantee 
that  he  is  a  rare  man  of  worth.  I  congratulate 
his  haters  on  having  given  him  so  clear  a  cer- 
tificate, and  his  lovers  on  having  so  good  and 
proved  a  friend. 


42  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

From  Helen  Keller 

You  dear  comrade!  I  have  long  loved  you 
because  you  are  an  apostle  of  brotherhood  and 
freedom.  For  years  I  have  thought  of  you  as  a 
dauntless  explorer  going  towards  the  dawn;  and, 
like  a  humble  adventurer,  I  have  followed  in  the 
trail  of  your  footsteps.  From  time  to  time  the 
greetings  that  have  come  back  to  me  from  you 
have  made  me  very  happy;  and  now  I  reach  out 
my  hand  and  clasp  yours  through  prison  bars. 


From  Eugene  Field 

'Gene  Debs  is  the  most  lovable  man  I  ever 
knew.  His  heart  is  as  gentle  as  a  woman's  and 
as  fresh  as  a  mountain  brook.  If  Debs  were  a 
priest  the  world  would  listen  to  his  eloquence, 
and  that  gentle,  musical  voice  and  sad,  sweet 
smile  of  his  would  soften  the  hardest  heart. 


From  Horace  Traubel 

The  four  letters  that  spell  Debs  have  added 
a  new  vocabulary  to  the  race.  Debs  is  not  so 
much  size  as  quality.  He  has  ten  hopes  to  your 
one  hope.  He  has  ten  loves  to  your  one  love. 
When  Debs  speaks  a  harsh  word  it  is  wet  with 
tears. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  43 

From  Edwin  Markham 

Eugene  V.  Debs !  This  is  one  of  the  greatest 
names  of  the  great  names  of  the  country.  No 
one — not  even  a  political  enemy — has  ever  said 
that  Debs  is  not  sincere  to  the  core  of  his  heart. 
It  is  an  event  to  meet  this  courageous  friend  of 
man.  The  grasp  of  his  hand  is  comforting,  the 
look  at  his  lighted  face  is  an  inspiration.  In 
that  one  look  you  are  taken  into  the  door  of  his 
home,  seated  at  his  table,  warmed  at  his  chim- 
ney-fire. 

From  Max  Eastman 

His  spirit  is  more  beautiful  than  anything  I 
have  seen  in  any  man  of  my  time.  His  genius 
is  for  love — the  ancient,  real  love,  the  miracle 
love,  that  utterly  identifies  itself  with  the  emo- 
tions and  the  needs  and  wishes  of  others.  That 
is  why  it  is  a  sacrament  to  meet  him,  to  have 
that  warm  rapier-like  attention  concentrated  on 
you  for  a  moment.  And  that  is  why  Debs  has 
so  much  greater  power  than  many  who  are  more 
astute  and  studious  of  the  subtleties  of  politics 
and  oratory.  And  that  is  why  Debs  was  convicted 
of  a  crime — he  was  convicted  because  he  could 
not  open  his  mouth  without  declaring  his  soli- 
darity and  inward  identity  with  his  comrades 
who  are  in  prison. 

Debs  is  the  sweetest  strong  man  in  the  world. 
He  is  a  poet,  and  even  more  gifted  of  poetry  in 
private  speech  than  in  public  oratory.  Every  in- 
stant and  incident  of  life  is  keen  and  sacred  to 
him.  ^1 


44  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

From  John  Haynes  Holmes 

Through  all  the  ages,  there  runs  the  noble 
line  of  the  prophets  and  saviors  of  mankind — 
the  men  who  have  heroically  dared  every  peril, 
made  every  sacrifice,  suffered  every  pain  and 
ignominy  for  the  sake  of  truth,  justice  and  lib- 
erty. Eugene  V.  Debs  has  in  our  time  w^on  his 
place  in  this  great  succession.  Kindest,  gentlest, 
bravest  of  men,  his  name  is  already  taking  on 
that  golden  lustre  which  belongs  only  to  those 
who  love  their  kind,  and  give  all  in  their  be- 
half. 


From  Owen  R.  Lovejoy 

I  will  tell  you  the  trouble  with  you,  'Gene — 
you  came  on  earth  too  soon.  We  aren't  ready 
for  you  yet.  You  are  as  premature  as  Lincoln 
was,  or  Huss,  or  Wycliff  e,  or  Jesus. 

From  John  Swinton 

I  "took"  to  Lincoln  in  my  early  life  as  I  "took" 
to  Debs  in  my  declining  years.  Lincoln  spoke 
for  men,  women  and  children,  for  right  and 
progress,  for  the  freedom  of  labor,  and  so  spoke 
Debs.  Lincoln  was  the  foe  of  human  slavery,  so 
was  Debs.  Lincoln  was  called  the  "Illinois  ba- 
boon," the  "nigger-lover,"  and  Debs  is  called 
"the  anarchist,"  the  "undesirable  citizen."  Lin- 
coln declared:  "Liberty  before  poverty;  the 
man  before  the  dollar,"  and  Debs  repeated  it, 
and  re-echoes  it  to  this  hour. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  45 

From  Charlotte  Perkins  Oilman 

Eugene  Debs  is  a  good  American  citizen  as 
well  as  a  good  Socialist,  and  a  man  beloved  by 
all  who  know  him.  To  punish  such  a  social  ser- 
vant for  standing  by  his  principles  is  a  historic 
mistake — the  world  has  made  many  such. 


From  George  F.  Hibner 

After  weeks  and  weeks  of  the  dark,  echoing 
mine;  after  long  days  of  burning  and  smother- 
ing dust  of  the  fields,  and  the  tramp  through 
long  ways  seeking  a  "job,"  we  sit  here  listening 
to  Debs,  and  it  seems  that  the  doors  of  the  sky 
are  opened  and  universe-music  poured  forth. 
The  future  has  taken  from  next  her  heart  one 
of  her  treasures — and  we  are  meeting  Debs. 

Debs  comes  and  calls  us:  "It  is  time  to  go! 
It  is  time  to  quit  selling  the  days  and  years  of 
our  lives  to  those  who  use  them  for  profit !  It  is 
time  to  BE  MEN !  It  is  time  to  LIVE!"  And  almost 
we  find  ourselves  marching  to  new  music;  al- 
most we  find  ourselves  with  the  gathering  crowd 
looking  toward  the  East  for  the  new  days.  We 
too,  have  dreams;  we,  too,  have  a  purpose;  we, 
too,  glimpse  the  Ideal. 

'Gene  Debs!  Time,  in  all  her  trial  of  golden 
days  and  nights  of  stars,  never  held  one  more 
loving  or  beloved.  This  dreamer  melts  our 
hearts  with  love,  then  stamps  them  with  ideals 
everlasting. 


46  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

From  Frederic  Auguste  Bartholdi 

He  is  endowed  with  the  most  precious  fac- 
ulty to  which  one  can  aspire — the  gift  of  lan- 
guage— and  he  uses  it  for  the  proclamation  of 
the  most  beautiful  and  generous  thought.  His 
beautiful  language  is  that  of  an  apostle. 


From  Henri  Barbusse 

I  am  glad  to  join  those  free  spirits  and  noble 
souls  who  sing  the  praises  of  that  great  apostle, 
Eugene  V.  Debs,  who  personifies  to  me,  not  only 
a  social  doctrine,  that  of  right  and  morality,  but 
also  the  energy  of  soul  and  bravery  necessary 
actually  to  proclaim  truth  to  the  world.  His 
place  should  be  a  choice  one  in  the  hearts  of  the 
oppressed  and  all  those  who  are  wounded  by 
and  suffer  for  the  suffering  of  others.  In  the 
temporal  order,  his  place  should  be  at  the  head 
of  a  great  nation.  All  those  who  desire  right  and 
justice,  all  who  long  for  the  day  when  their 
hopes  shall  be  realized,  should  approve  enthusi- 
astically the  idea  of  the  American  Socialist  party 
to  offer  him  as  candidate  for  President  of  the  re- 
public. 

Let  every  slave,  every  exploited  and  suffer- 
ing one  in  the  whole  world,  never  forget  that  this 
loyal  soul,  this  far-seeing  prophet,  has  under- 
gone martyrdom  for  one  long  year;  let  them 
arise  and  demand  his  freedom. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  47 

From  Upton  Sinclair 

I  have  been  asked  to  write  what  I  believe 
'Gene  Debs  would  write  if  he  were  free  to  take 
his  proper  part  in  this  presidential  campaign. 
Speaking  with  the  voice  of  'Gene  Debs,  I  call 
upon  you — not  to  set  me  free  from  my  felon's 
cell  in  Atlanta,  but  to  set  yourselves  free,  your 
spirit  and  your  vision  and  your  ideal,  your  com- 
munity, your  country,  your  past  traditions  and 
your  future  hopes ! 

Why  was  I,  Eugene  Debs,  sent  to  a  felon's 
cell?  Because  for  thirty  years  I  have  been  the 
friend  of  the  poor  and  oppressed,  and  because 
in  a  time  of  crisis  I  spoke  the  truth  when  others 
were  bUnded  or  cowed.  Why  am  I  kept  in  a 
felon's  cell — now  when  danger  of  war  is  past? 
Because  it  is  known  that  if  freed,  I  will  go  on 
speaking  the  truth,  I  will  speak  it  more  effective- 
ly than  ever,  I  will  be  more  dangerous  to  the 
predatory  powers  that  tried  to  silence  my  voice. 
I  am  not  in  jail  because  of  myself,  but  because 
of  you — in  order  that  you  may  not  learn  the 
truth  I  have  to  teach;  in  order  that  the  fire  of 
justice  and  freedom  which  is  in  my  soul  shall 
not  come  into  contact  with  your  soul  and  en- 
kindle it.  So  when  you  go  out  among  your  fel- 
lows, to  agitate  and  educate  and  organize,  to 
make  your  voice  heard  demanding  freedom  for 
me,  it  will  be  freedom  for  yourself  that  you  will 
be  winning.  When  you  have  won  it  for  yourself, 
then,  and  only  then,  will  I  be  happy;  for  I  am 
the  author  of  the  saying: 

"While  there  is  a  lower  class,  I  am  in  it; 
While  there  is  a  eriminal  element,  I  am  of  it; 
While  there  is  a  soul  in  jail,  I  am  not  free." 


48  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

From  David  Starr  Jordan 

I  have  not  met  Eugene  Debs  since,  thirty-five 
years  ago,  he  was  a  member  of  the  Indiana  Leg- 
islature from  Terre  Haute.  I  do  not  remember 
that  I  ever  agreed  with  him  on  any  question,  so- 
cial or  political,  and  twenty-five  years  ago  I 
strongly  disapproved  of  his  management  in  the 
Pullman  strike.  Yet  I  have  reason  to  believe 
that  James  Whitcomb  Riley  was  right  in  as- 
cribing to  him 

"As  warm  a  heart  as  ever  beat 
Betwixt  here  and  the  judgment  seat." 

So  long  as  Debs  is  in  jail  for  voicing  his 
opinions,  the  rest  of  us  are  in  a  degree  stopped 
from  expressing  ours.  The  limits  to  free  speech 
are  stated  in  the  Constitution  and  no  local  court 
is  commissioned  as  censor  of  opinions. 

It  may  be  true,  as  is  claimed,  that  Debs  in 
prison  makes  more  converts  to  Socialism  than 
he  ever  made  when  at  large.  But  that  is  not 
the  point.  Our  plea  is  not  for  more  converts 
to  any  cause  whatever;  we  want  simply  free 
air.  There  is  no  road  to  justice  and  peace  that 
does  not  lead  through  freedom. 

I  have  nothing  further  to  add  except  that 
unless  people  who  disagree  with  me  are  free  to 
speak  their  minds,  I  am  not  free  either,  for  one's 
opinions  lose  their  force  when  backed  by  gov- 
ernment censorship  or  official  interference. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  49 

From  RiDGELY  Torrence 

His  name  deserves  to  stand  beside  that  of 
our  glorious  martyr,  John  Brown,  and,  although 
his  idealism  is  no  more  intense  than  Brown's, 
he  is  a  step  advanced  in  wisdom,  for  he  turns 
his  back  on  bloodshed  as  a  means  of  progress. 
His  is  a  fortunate  situation,  as  the  world  goes. 
He  is  revered  by  a  great  multitude  upon  which 
he  can  radiate  his  loving  inspiration  and  as 
soon  as  he  dies  his  spirit  will  be  even  more  pow- 
erful. 


50  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

THE  MARTYRDOM 
By  Ruth  Le  Prade 

Eugene  Victor  Debs  entered  upon  his  mar- 
tyrdom, April  thirteenth,  year  of  Our  Lord 
nineteen  hundred  and  nineteen.  Fearless,  un- 
conquered  he  bade  good  by  to  the  sunlight  and 
the  starlight,  to  the  flowers  and  the  children, 
and  gave  up  his  body  into  the  hands  of  his  op- 
pressors. Calmly,  without  complaint,  he  walked 
into  the  living  death  that  had  been  prepared 
for  him — and  his  soul  sang;  for  he  had  stood  the 
test,  he  had  kept  the  Faith;  and  deemed  his  life 
a  little  thing  to  lay  upon  the  altar  of  his  Dream. 
Such  is  the  spirit  God  gives  to  his  chosen  ones, 
fearlessly  they  stand  and  speak  the  Truth;  they 
tremble  not  at  the  scourge,  the  gaol,  the  cross; 
and  when  the  hour  comes,  they  walk  unto  the 
doom  man  has  prepared  for  them,  with  a  smile! 

Over  a  year  has  passed  since  Debs  first 
entered  his  dungeon  cell.  Though  his  body  is 
worn  with  suffering,  he  is  still  as  unwavering, 
loyal,  and  optimistic  as  when  he  first  entered  it. 
"I  can  stay  here  forever,"  he  says,  and  sends 
messages  of  joy  and  courage  to  his  comrades 
without. 

No  great  martyrdom  has  ever  been  under- 
stood by  the  masses  until  time  has  made  it  holy. 
Stolidly  and  stupidly  the  people  stood  by  while 
Socrates  was  condemned,  Jeanne  d'Arc  was 
burned,  John  Brown  was  hanged,  and  Christ 
was  nailed  upon  the  cross.    If  they  heard  of  the 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  51 

matter  at  all  they  dismissed  it  without  a  thought. 
Had  not  the  accused  been  tried  according  to  law 
and  found  guilty,  and  should  not  punishment 
follow?  (With  due  respect  for  the  majesty  of 
the  law  we  can  but  remember  that  all  of  these 
martyrs  were  tried,  convicted,  and  sentenced, 
in  a  perfectly  legal  manner  in  full  accordance 
with  the  legal  machinery  of  their  time.)  Christ, 
to  the  respectable,  law-abiding  citizen  of  his  day 
was  an  ignorant  disturber,  Socrates  a  corrupter 
of  the  youth,  Jeanne  d'Arc  a  witch,  and  John 
Brown  an  unbalanced  fanatical  law-breaker, 
criminal,  and  a  menace  to  "law  and  order." 
The  very  people  who  today  weep  for  the  suffer- 
ings of  the  Maid  of  Orleans  and  the  Man  of  Gali- 
lee would  not  have  risked  a  finger,  had  they 
been  present,  to  save  the  life  of  either. 

To  the  millions  who  have  called  'Gene  com- 
rade he  has  become  holy  and  apart.  They  no 
longer  dare  to  clasp  his  hand,  but  kneel  in  ador- 
ation at  his  feet. 

Thou  wert  our  Comrade  through  the  many 
years.  But  who  is  fit  to  be  thy  Comrade  now? 
Not  one  of  us  who  stands  within  the  sunlight, 
not  one  of  us  outside  the  prison  door.  We  are 
not  fit  to  kneel  beside  thy  feet.  We  stand  in  the 
outer  courtyard  and  cannot  enter  to  the  inner 
shrine  till  we  have  paid  the  price.  Thou  wert 
our  Comrade  once.  And  oh!  we  love  thee  so. 
We  fain  would  claim  thee  still — ^yet  we  dare  not. 
For  at  thy  side  stand  Socrates  and  Christ,  Sa- 
vonarola and  John  Brown — the  martyrs  and  the 
heroes  of  the  world. 


NOTES 

Concerning  the  writers  quoted  in  this  book. 


WITTER  BYKNTER 

Early  in  1919  Witter  Bynner  was  an  instructor  in 
poetry  at  the  University  of  California,  Berkeley.  Be- 
cause of  his  advocacy  of  Amnesty  for  Political  Prisoners 
he  became  the  center  of  a  storm  of  persecution,  which 
ended  in  his  withdrawal.  Today  his  poetry  is  so  popular 
in  Berkeley  that  it  is  almost  impossible  to  get  one  of  his 
books  from  the  libraries. 

When  he  was  asked  for  some  word  for  Debs  he  responded 
with  his  exquisite  lyric,  "9653." 

A  "Debs  for  President"  Club  was  organized  at  the  Uni- 
versity, and  Bynner  consented  to  read  "9653"  at  its  first 
meeting, 

Bynner  is  not  a  Socialist  or  a  radical.  "I  have  never  met 
Eugene  Debs,"  he  says.  "I  heard  him  speak  in  San  Fran- 
cisco in  1912  and  was  moved  by  the  kind  of  appeal  he 
made  to  his  audience;  not  the  appeal  of  a  politician  desir- 
ing power  or  corralling  votes,  but  a  vivid  and  humane 
passion  for  the  betterment  of  his  species.  He  has  since 
remained  a  poignant  figure  m  my  mind;  a  leader  touched 
with  the  kind  of  greatness  which  I  suppose  has  to  suffer  in 
this  world  because  it  is  bravely  ahead  of  its  time.  Without 
being  convinced  that  the  political  measures  advocated  by 
Debs  are  all  he  thinks  them,  I  am  convinced  no  less  that 
he  is  one  of  the  finest  spirits  alive  and  one  of  the  con- 
spicuous justifications  of  his  country,  a  contrast  to  those 
in  authority  who  jail  men  for  being  good." 

52 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  53 

EDMUND  VANCE  COOKE 

"I  never  met  Debs  but  once,"  says  Edmund  Vance 
Cooke,  "which  was  the  day  when  the  jury  was  out,  with 
his  fate  in  its  hands.  The  morning  paper  had  contained  a 
very  brief  extract  from  his  speech  to  the  court.  Short 
and  garbled  though  the  extract  was,  I  was  thrilled  by  it. 
Circumstances  considered,  it  seemed  to  me  it  was  one  of 
the  great  speeches  in  American  history. 

"I  am  not  a  Socialist.  I  never  heard  Debs  speak  but 
once,  and  that  was  a  campaign  speech  which  did  not  par- 
ticularly impress  me.  I  have  always  admired  Debs  as  a 
great,  unselfish  soul,  deeply  and  sincerely  concerned  in 
righting  our  social  and  economic  wrongs.  We  have  many 
friends  in  common  and  some  of  them  have  told  me  tales 
of  Debs,  showing  his  almost  Jesus-like  attitude  towards  his 
fellowmen. 

"On  the  day  of  the  trial,  when  the  jury  was  out,  I  went 
down  to  the  Federal  building  and  was  fortunate  enough 
to  find  Debs  in  the  corridor  outside  of  the  courtroom.  I 
went  up  to  him  and  spoke  to  him  and  mentioned  my  name, 
not  dreaming  that  he  knew  of  me.  He  could  not  have 
been  gladder  to  see  me  if  I  had  been  a  boyhood  friend.  He 
insisted  upon  talking  about  me,  instead  of  about  himself, 
said  he  had  read  me  for  years  and  followed  my  syndicated 
poems  in  a  Terre  Haute  paper  every  day,  etc.,  etc.  I  told 
him  that  if  he  went  out  on  the  street  and  asked  the  first 
ten  people  who  Edmund  Vance  Cooke  was,  nine  of  them 
wouldn't  know.  He  pondered  a  moment  and  then  said, 
'Well,  maybe,  maybe.  I  went  over  to  Hannibal,  Missouri, 
not  long  since  and  inquired  about  Mark  Twain  in  a  store 
almost  on  the  site  of  Twain's  boyhood  home  and  the  store- 
keeper didn't  know  whom  I  was  talking  about.' 

"After  we  had  a  laugh  at  this,  I  asked  him  about  his 
chances  with  the  jury  and  he  seemed  quite  optimistic.  He 
said  that  the  judge  had  been  very  fair.  When  I  told  him 
what  I  thought  of  his  speech  of  the  day  before  he  seemed 


54  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

deeply  affected  and  said,  'It  is  worth  going  through  the 
trial  to  hear  you  say  that.' 

"Just  as  I  left  him,  I  slipped  him  the  poem  I  had  writ- 
ten that  morning.  And  thus  ended  my  first  visit  with  Eu- 
gene Debs,  but  I  hope  not  my  last." 

Edmund  Vance  Cooke  has  both  written  and  spoken, 
publicity  and  privately,  in  behalf  of  Debs  and  the  other 
political  prisoners.  "I  think  his  imprisonment  a  gross  in- 
justice," he  says,  "and  certainly,  since  the  armistice,  an 
inexcusable  continuance  of  oppression  and  cruelty." 

PERCY  MACKAYE 

Percy  Mackaye,  author  of  "Jeanne  d'Are,"  "Mater," 
"The  Scarecrow,"  and  "Tomorrow,"  is  not  a  Socialist.  He 
earnestly  supported  the  war.  Yet  he  says,  "With  all  my 
heart  I  deplore  the  sad  conditions  that  commit  to  prison 
such  courageous  idealists  as  Debs. 

"Indeed  I  think  all  prisons  are  outworn  relics  of  Me- 
diaevalism,"  he  adds.  "If  there  must  be  political  prisoners, 
which  is  disputable,  then  civilized  laws  should  detain  them 
under  conditions  of  honor  and  courtesy  due  to  honest  op- 
ponents of  opinion;  and  as  for  such  prisoners  as  are 
really  criminal  by  nature,  they  should  be  housed  in  reme- 
dial hospitals.  A  vast  majority  of  our  people,  I  believe, 
would  heartily  agree  to  this;  but  it  is  a  tragic  consequence 
of  our  still  protoplasmic  stage  of  self  government  that 
laws  affecting  millions  of  human  beings  are  devised  and 
put  through  by  a  few  hundred. 

"As  to  the  political  philosophy  of  Debs,"  continues 
Mackaye,  "many  of  his  opinions  are  not  held  by  me;  but 
the  human  kindness  of  his  great  personality  and  the  in- 
tegrity of  his  beliefs  are  characteristics  which  I  would  ad- 
mire whether  I  agreed  with  him  or  not.  Especially  in  re- 
gard to  the  war  I  did  not  agree  with  him ;  for  I  was  one  of 
those  who  believed— and  believed  ardently— that  we  had 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  55 

no  other  possible  alternative,  as  Americans,  than  to  un- 
dertake it 

"But  the  intolerant  passions  it  has  engendered  in  our 
midst  have  been  unworthy  of  the  high  motives  we  pro- 
fessed, and  which  I,  among  many,  professed  with  all  sin- 
cerity. Except  for  those  unpoised  passions  Debs  could 
hardly  have  been  imprisoned.  In  the  white  heat  of  con- 
flict some  intolerance  may  well  have  seemed  to  be  moral; 
but  now— in  the  cold  light  of  the  cosmic  disillusionment  the 
world  has  suffered— now,  if  ever,  our  imaginations  should  be 
touched  to  value  only  a  redeeming  tolerance,  for  if  there 
be  any  left  alive  who  are  any  longer  cocksure,  surely  they 
are  only  the  incorrigible.  Unless  they  are  many.  Debs  will 
soon  be  free  again. 

"Politically  I  am  of  no  party:  simply  an  American, 
which  has  always  meant  to  me  (whatever  it  may  mean  to 
others)  a  lover  of  human  liberty,  anywhere  on  this  planet. 

"Hiuman  liberty,  of  course,  is  often  confused  with  hu- 
man fighting;  but  I  do  not  mean  it  so.  I  am  not  a  lover 
of  fighting  for  its  own  sake,  and  it  is  in  any  case  a  very 
ineffectual  method  of  procedure,  even  for  the  sake  of 
achieving  better  things  implied  in  civilization.  Some  of 
these  better  things,  I  take  it,  are  human  fellowship,  and 
health,  and  clear  thinking,  and  quiet  work,  and  poetry — 
and  seeing  good  men  like  Debs  out  in  the  sunshine." 

MURRAY  E.  KING 

When  the  Spanish  American  War  broke  out  Murray 
E.  King,  author  of  "Debs,  the  Fighter,"  enlisted  and  left 
his  father's  farm  in  Utah  for  Manilla.  He  came  back  a 
"confirmed  Socialist"  and  within  a  year  converted  almost 
every  resident  of  his  native  village.  Since  then  he  baa 
written,  organized,  and  edited.  He  is  now  engaged  in  in- 
dependent literary  work. 

"Debs  is  to  me,"  he  says,  "a  revelation  of  human  possi- 
bilities.   He  has  won  from  the  masses  an  instinctive  rec- 


56  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

ognition  that  he  embodies  something  unusually  commanding 
and  great.  This  instinctive  recognition  of  Debs'  greatness 
is  our  sheer  worship  of  the  supreme  in  character.  It  is 
because  Debs'  love,  idealism,  courage,  loyalty,  hope  are 
literally  boundless  that  they  who  know  him  accord  him  a 
first  place  among  men.  He  is  a  crushing,  living  denial  of 
all  cynical  disbelief  in  human  nature  because  he  is  proof 
that  there  can  be  a  man  in  whom  there  is  no  selfishness, 
cowardice,  malice,  treachery,  or  guile.  He  is  the  true  social 
type— the  real  comrade  type— which  will  dominate  the  fu- 
ture." 

For  many  years  Debs  and  King  have  been  close  friends. 
Whenever  Debs  was  in  Salt  Lake  City  he  was  entertained 
by  this  faithful  friend.  And  it  was  at  one  of  Debs'  meet- 
ings there  that  King  received  the  inspiration  for  his  poem, 
"Debs,  the  Fighter."  "The  inimitable  gestures,"  says 
King,  "the  magnificent  impersonation  of  love,  the  insatiable 
idealism,  the  towering  wrath  in  the  presence  of  injustice- 
all  these  greatly  impressed  me.  A  month  or  so  later,"  he 
continues,  "I  was  on  a  Western  Pacific  train  going  west  to 
a  prospect  in  Nevada  in  which  I  was  interested.  This 
thrilling  picture  of  Debs  pleading  with  the  workers,  de- 
nounciag  their  oppressors,  came  back  to  me  in  vivid  out- 
line. One  line  kept  occurring  and  re-occurring  to  me — 
'The  looming  figure  of  a  man  at  bay.'  I  could  see  all  the 
hatred  of  a  misunderstanding  world  pressing  back  this 
heroic  figure  until  he  had  taken  his  last  supreme  stand 
where  he  stood  in  his  final  strength  towering  like  a  god. 
I  wrote  other  lines  as  they  came  to  me  with  a  lead  pencil 
on  a  dilapidated  note  book." 

JAMES  WHITCOMB  RHiEY 

James  Whitcomb  Riley  and  Eugene  V.  Debs  were  close 
and  intimate  friends  for  almost  forty  years.  Their  friend- 
ship commenced  'way  back  in  the  early  days  and  lasted 
through  Riley's  lifetime.    Some  of  the  Hoosier  Poet's  finest 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  57 

literary  work  was  inspired  by  Debs.  Once  when  Riley 
was  ill  Debs  took  him  some  roses,  of  which  Riley  was  very 
fond.  The  gentle  poet  was  touched  to  tears  and  responded 
with  the  poem,  "Them  Flowers." 

How  the  friendship  of  these  two  great  men  first 
started,  and  how  Debs  came  to  champion  Riley's  cause  in 
Terre  Haute,  is  told  by  Debs  as  follows: 

"Late  in  the  '70's  a  sketch  of  country  life  in  quaint 
and  homely  phrase,  copied  in  one  of  our  local  papers,  at- 
tracted my  attention.  The  writer  seemed  to  have  dipped 
his  pen  into  the  very  heart  of  my  own  experience  as  a 
Hoosier  lad,  and  the  picture  he  drew,  so  faithfully  true  to 
the  days  of  my  childhood,  appealed  with  irresistible  charm 
to  my  delighted  imagination.  Eagerly  I  sought  the  writer's 
name.  His  imperishable  fame  was  already  achieved,  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned. 

"I  soon  learned  that  James  Whitcomb  Riley  was  none 
other  than  *Benj.  F.  Johnson  of  Boone,'  whose  dialect 
verses,  contributed  to  the  Indianapolis  Journal  about  that 
time,  were  eagerly  read  and  gave  the  writer  his  early  local 
fame  as  the  'Hoosier  Poet.*  Among  these  poems,  which 
have  since  become  familiar  wherever  the  English  language 
is  spoken,  were  'The  Frost  is  on  the  Punkin',  'The  Old 
Swimmin'  Hole,'  and  others,  a  dozen  in  all,  which  the 
author  was  persuaded  by  his  devotees  to  have  done  into  a 
modest  little  volume  entitled  'The  Old  Swimmin'  Hole  and 
'Leven  More  P6ems.' 

"Impatient  to  see  this  native  genius  of  the  Hoosier  soil, 
whose  keen  poetic  insight,  sympathetic  interpretation  and 
charming  dialect  had  so  appealed  to  my  imagination,  I 
boarded  a  train  for  Indianapolis,  only  to  find  on  arrival, 
to  my  great  disappointment  and  regret,  that  Mr.  Riley  was 
absent  from  the  city.  But  I  met  George  Hitt,  of  the 
Morning  Journal,  who  was  then  Riley's  manager  and  book- 
ing agent,  and  through  him  I  arranged  for  an  early  date 
for  the  rising  young  poet  and  humorist  at  Terre  Haute. 


58  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

"The  first  appearance  of  the  'Hoosier  Poet'  in  our  city 
was  anything  but  a  shining  success,  although  the  poet  gave 
a  brilliant  exhibition  of  his  wonderful  powers  as  a  mimic 
and  as  a  personator  of  the  characters  sketched  in  his 
poems  and  studies.  The  entertainment  was  given  in  the 
old  Dowling  Hall,  and  there  was  a  painfully  diminutive  at- 
tendance. 

"Surely,  I  argued  to  myself  that  night,  this  settles  the 
question  of  RUey's  genius,  and  never  again  will  the  God- 
gifted  'Hoosier  Poet'  be  humiliated  by  so  paltry  an  audi- 
ence in  Terre  Haute.  On  his  next  visit  he  will  without 
doubt  be  greeted  by  an  overflowing  house  and  given  a 
rapturous  ovation. 

"But  alas!  the  second  audience  was  even  smaller  than 
the  first.  My  surprise  and  mortification  may  be  imagined. 
But  I  was  more  than  ever  determined  that  the  people  of 
Terre  Haute  should  see  James  Whitcomb  Riley  and  realize 
that  a  poet  had  sprung  up  out  of  their  own  soU— a  native 
wild  flower  at  their  very  feet— whose  fame  would  spread 
over  all  the  land  and  beyond  the  seas  to  the  most  distant 
shores. 

"A  third  attempt  resulted  in  another  dismal  failure." 

Of  course  later,  when  the  literati  of  New  York  had 
hailed  Riley  as  a  genius  and  Fame  had  crowned  him  with 
immortal  splendor,  the  people  of  Terre  Haute  were  proud 
to  do  him  honor.  "When  next  he  came  to  Terre  Haute  the 
auditorium  was  packed  to  the  last  inch  of  standing  room, 
and  hundreds  were  turned  away." 

But  Riley  never  forgot  the  man  who  loved  him,  be- 
lieved in  him,  and  helped  him  when  others  were  indifferent. 
Having  known  poverty,  heartbreak,  and  struggle,  he  knew 
how  to  appreciate  a  friend  when  he  found  one.  His  love 
for  'Gene,  whom  he  considered  a  masterpiece  of  God, 
amounted  almost  to  adoration;— he  says,  "God  was  feeling 
mighty  good  when  he  made  'Gene  Debs,  and  he  didn't  have 
anything  else  to  do  all  day." 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  59 

Riley  gave  to  his  dear  friend  a  number  of  autographed 
volumes  of  his  poems  which  are  still  treasured  in  the  Debs' 
library.    They  bear  the  following  inscriptions: 

"Cadence   of   maiden   voices— 
Their  lovers'  blush  with  these; 
And  of  little  children  singing, 
As  under  orchard  trees. 
"To  My  Friend,  Eugene  Debs, 

"Faithfully, 

"James  Whitcomb  Riley. 
"Brown  Co.,  Dec.  8,  1887." 

(Written  in  "Afterwhiles.") 


"For  Eugene  V.  Debs,  Esq.— With  best  love  of  his  old 

friend,  James  Whitcomb  Riley. 

"Indianapolis,  Ind.,  Nov.,  1894." 


"With  perfect  faith  in  God  and  man 
A-shinin'  in  his  eyes.  (Doc  Sifers.) 

Dec.  25,  1897.  James  Whitcomb  Riley." 

(Written  in  "The  Rubaiyat  of  Doc  Sifers.") 

To  Debs  we  are  indebted  for  this  charming  and  intimate 
picture  of  the  "God-gifted  Hoosier."  "On  his  several 
visits  to  our  home,"  says  Debs,  "we  came  to  know  how 
the  people,  especially  the  children,  loved  him.  Long  be- 
fore he  was  awake  in  the  morning  the  little  folks  had  al- 
ready gathered  in  the  waiting  room  to  greet  him.  One 
little  miss  of  five  was  in  tears  when  she  told  us  how  hard 
her  father  had  tried  to  get  her  into  the  opera  house  to  see 
Riley  the  night  before  (this  was  after  Riley's  triumphant 
return  to  Terre  Haute)  and  had  failed.  That  was  why  she 
was  the  first  of  the  children  at  our  house  the  following 


60  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

morning,  and  when  we  assured  her  that  she  should  see 
Riley,  her  eyes  fairly  beamed  with  joy.  A  little  later  her 
cup  was  full.  She  had  her  dimpled  arms  about  her  idol's 
neck  and  was  covering  his  face  with  kisses  and  telling  him 
how  she  loved  him 

"Another  doting  lassie,  black-eyed  and  beautiful,  de- 
clared her  undying  love  for  the  children's  poet.  .  .  . 
She  wore  a  necklace  with  a  clasped  heart  for  a  charm,  and 
when  he  told  her  how  pretty  it  was  and  added,  'That's  the 
kind  I  used  to  wear  when  I  was  a  little  girl,'  she  regarded 
him  with  wonder  for  a  moment  and  then  burst  into  joyous 
laughter." 

Riley  and  Debs  were  one  in  their  great  love  for  the  chil- 
dren. Debs  says,  "The  sweetest,  tenderest,  most  pregnant 
words  uttered  by  the  proletaire  of  Galilee  were:  'Suffer 
little  children,  and  forbid  them  not,  to  come  imto  me;  for 
of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven.'  .  .  .  Childhood! 
What  a  holy  theme!  Flowers  they  are,  with  souls  in  them, 
and  if  on  this  earth  man  has  a  sacred  charge,  a  holy  obli- 
gation, it  is  to  these  tender  buds  and  blossoms  of  human- 
ity." 

Riley  has  expressed  in  his  poetry  what  Debs  has  ex- 
pressed in  his  deeds.    If  Riley  had  his  "Ruthers:"— 

"The  pore  'ud  git  theyr  dues  some  times— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers, — 
And  be  paid  dollars  'stid  o'  dimes, 
Fer  children,  wives  and  mothers: 
Theyr  boy  that  slaves;   theyr  girl  that— sews— 
Fer  others— not  herself,  God  knows!— 
The  grave's  her  only  change  of  clothes! 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 
They'd  all  have  'stuff  and  time  enough 
To  answer  one-another's 
Appealin'  prayer  fer  'lovin'  care' — 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers. 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  61 

"The  rich  and  great  'ud  sociate 
With  all  theyr  lowly  brothers, 
Feelin'  we  done  the  honorun— 
Ef  I  only  had  my  ruthers." 

Cradled  in  a  great  and  unpopular  cause,  (his  father 
was  an  Abolitionist  in  the  days  when  it  was  unpopular  and 
dangerous  to  be  one),  it  was  not  hard  for  Riley  to  under- 
stand his  friend  of  the  flaming  heart.  His  lines  on  John 
Brown  are  as  descriptive  of  'Gene  as  of  the  other  great 
martyr : 

"Writ  in  between  the  lines  of  his  life-deed 
We  trace  the  sacred  service  of  a  heart 
Answering  the  Divine  command  in  every  part 
Bearing  on  human  weal;    His  love  did  feed 
The  loveless;  and  his  gentle  hands  did  lead 
The  blind,  and  lift  the  weak,  and  balm  the  smart 
Of  other  wounds  than  rankled  at  the  dart 
In  his  own  breast,  that  gloried  thus  to  bleed. 
He  served  the  lowliest  first— nay,  them  alone — 
The  most  despised  that  ever  wreaked  vain  breath 
In  cries  of  suppliance  in  the  reign  whereat 
Red  guilt  sate  squat  upon  her  spattered  throne. 
For  these  doomed  there  it  was  he  went  to  death, 
God!  how  the  merest  man  loves  one  like  that!" 

Riley  once  said : 

"The  meanest  man  I  ever  saw 
Alius  kep'  inside  o'  the  law; 
And  ten-times  better  fellers  I've  knowed 
The  blame  grand'-jury's  sent  over  the  road." 

What  would  he  say  today  if  he  were  alive  to  see  his 
dear  friend,  Eugene  V.  Debs,  serving,  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
four  years,  a  ten-year  sentence  in  the  Federal  Penitentiary 
for  making  a  speech  against  war  I 


62  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

SAMUEL  A.  DE  WITT 

One  of  the  five  Socialist  assemblymen  who  have  been  ex- 
pelled from  the  Legislature  of  New  York  State. 

LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 

Louis  Untermeyer,  the  rebel  poet,  author  of  "These 
Times,"  "Challenge,"  etc.,  has  never  met  Debs,  and  yet 
Debs  has  been  one  of  the  most  potent  influences  in  his  life. 
"I  have  never  been  face  to  face  witii  'Gene,"  he  says,  "and 
the  only  time  that  I  saw  him  was  years  ago  when  I  was  one 
of  several  thousand  listeners.  That  was  at  a  time  when  I 
was  still  dreaming  of  literature  as  an  escape  from  life;  it 
never  occurred  to  me  during  my  nonage  that  a  poet  could 
have  anything  to  do  with  crude  facts,  mass  action  and  the 
disorganized  welter  of  the  modem  world.  It  was  the  spirit 
even  more  than  the  speech  of  Debs  that  remained  with  me 
and  vivified  my  social  contacts;  and  it  was  the  force  of 
Debs  that,  reinforced  by  experience,  battered  down  my 
Ivory  Tower. 

"As  a  poet  I  feel  the  inadequacy  of  my  instrument  when 
the  call  comes  to  'do  something*  about  Debs.  Words,  I 
have  been  told,  are  the  only  things  that  last,  but  unless  they 
are  (as  Robert  Frost  once  said)  words  that  become  deeds, 
they  will  count  for  nothing." 

WALTER  HURT 

"The  most  distinctive  thing  about  Debs  is  his  smile," 
says  Walter  Hurt.  Hurt  and  Debs  were  intimately  asso- 
ciated for  many  years.  After  knowing  Debs  awhile  Hurt 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  Debs  was  the  best  of  all  doctors 
and  that  his  incomparable  smile  could  not  fail  to  heal  the 
saddest  heart.  These  sentiments  he  has  expressed  in  his 
poem,  "Momin',  'Gene." 

Hurt  is  as  tender  hearted  as  'Gene  himself.  Once  when 
they  were  working  together  on  the  Appeal  to  Reason,  Debs 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  63 

became  interested  in  a  shooting  gallery  down  the  street  and 
spent  some  of  his  time  there.  When  Walter  found  this  out 
he  was  horrified.  "Don't  you  see,"  he  said,  "that  shooting 
clay  pigeons  is  only  a  preparation  for  shooting  real  ones!" 
'Gene  never  visited  the  gallery  again. 

In  his  beautiful  "Introduction  to  Eugene  V.  Debs" 
Hurt  gives  us  a  glimpse  of  the  many  sides  of  his  hero.  Here 
we  see  not  only  Debs  the  Doctor,  but  Debs  the  Dreamer,  Debs 
the  Dependable,  Debs  the  Democrat,  Debs  in  all  the  vari- 
ous manifestations  of  his  soul. 

Speaking  of  the  imprisonment  of  'Gene,  Walter  Hurt 
writes,  "This  infinite  crime  has  no  parallel  in  human  history 
siaee  the  tragedy  of  Calvary.  In  fact  the  jail  is  merely  a 
modem  form  of  crucifixion  for  just  men.  Had  Debs  been 
contemporaneous  with  Jesus,  he,  too,  would  have  been  sac- 
rificed on  the  cross,  and  for  the  same  reason.  And  were 
the  Nazarene  alive  today,  he  would  be  incarcerated  in  At- 
lanta penitentiary,  where  he  would  find  in  our  gentle 
'Gene  a  not  unworthy  cell-mate." 

JAMES  OPPENHEIM 

In  the  poetry  of  James  Oppenheim  we  find  the  force 
and  fire  of  his  great  hero,  Walt  Whitman.  And  when  he 
says  that  America  has  produced  no  greater  lover  than 
'Gene  Debs,  he  pays  to  Debs  the  highest  tribute  that  a 
devotee  of  Whitman  could. 

"I  have  never  met  'Gene  Debs,"  says  Oppenheim,  "but 
others  who  know  him -have  made  me  feel  as  though  I  had 
met  him.  For  a  long  time  I  could  not  feel  happy  about 
him.  I  wished  that  he  had  a  great  mind  to  fling  creative 
vistas  through  our  factory  smoke.  I  felt  that  he  was  more 
like  John  Brown  than  like  Lincoln.  But  my  feeling  has 
changed.  I  believe  that  America  has  not  produced  any 
other,  even  Whitman,  with  a  deeper  and  more  genuine  love 
for  human  beings  than  'Gene  Debs.  It  is  this  that  lifts 
him  into  greatness.    Much  intellect  is  playing  today  over 


64  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

the  industrial  scene :  excellent  thinking  is  done  in  England, 
and  it  serves  us  well.  And  there  is  passion  in  England  be- 
hind the  thinking.  We  can  take  over  the  thinking,  but  we 
can't  import  the  passion.  But  Debs  is  doing  something 
better  for  us  than  this:  he  is  giving  the  American  labor 
movement  the  very  quick  of  life :  he  is  giving  it  a  soul." 

JOHN  COWPER  POWyS 

John  Cowper  Powys,  the  British  critic,  poet,  and  Ox- 
ford lecturer,  is  one  of  Debs'  greatest  admirers  and  most 
fearless  defenders.  Last  summer  Powys  was  giving  a  se- 
ries of  lectures  in  San  Francisco.  To  hear  his  lecture  on 
Bolshevism  the  ballroom  of  the  St.  Francis  Hotel  was 
crowded  with  the  richest  and  most  fashionable  residents  of 
the  city.  Clad  in  decollete  gowns  of  silk  and  satin,  and 
gorgeous  with  jewels,  the  dilettante  women  of  San  Francisco 
awaited  the  platitudes  with  which  they  are  usually  fed. 
But  when  John  Cowper  Powys,  clad  in  his  Oxford  gown, 
strode  on  the  platform,  tall,  dark,  burning  eyed  and  fiery 
tongued,  and  proceeded  to  lash  them  with  the  Truth,  they 
received  a  shock  from  which  they  have  probably  never  re- 
covered to  this  day.  Tossing  "common  sense"  to  the  winds, 
he  talked  of  the  things  that  were  in  his  heart:  of  Russia, 
the  war,  the  oppressed,  of  the  man  who  had  but  recently 
become  a  convict  in  a  federal  penitentiary.  Tenderly, 
beautifully,  he  spoke  of  'Gene  Debs.  "If,"  he  concluded, 
"we  have  not  the  courage  to  take  our  places  by  his  side— 
the  least  we  can  do  is  to  admire  him!" 

CLEMENT  WOOD 

Clement  Wood,  revolutionary  poet  and  novelist,  author 
of  "Glad  of  Earth,"  "Mountain,"  and  "The  Earth  Turns 
South,"  tells  of  his  first  meeting  with  the  Great  Libertarian 
as  follows: 

"I  remember  Debs  first  when  he  spoke  to  an  intent,  rev- 
erent crowd  in  the  murk  of  the  old  L.  and  N.  station  at 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  65 

Birmingham,  Alabama.  At  that  time  I  had  become  a  So- 
cialist, and  was,  I  hope,  becoming  a  poet.  He  was  just 
passing  through;  we  were  an  ill-assorted,  disheartened 
group  in  that  black  section  that  still  lags  two  score  years 
behind  the  tardy  rest  of  the  country.  His  tall  figure,  en- 
treating rather  than  commanding,  bent  forward  till  his  eyes 
were  on  the  level  of  the  group;  his  words  spoke  to  our 
hearts,  and  woke  them  again. 

"At  that  time  I  was  recorder,  or  police  judge,  of  Bir- 
mingham, appointed,  although  a  Socialist,  in  an  ill- 
judged  effort  to  make  me  'be  good.'  My  father  was  and  is 
a  corporation  lawyer;  his  people  are  of  the  whiskey- 
drinking,  slave-owning  Old  South.  My  mother's  people 
were  middle-class,  teachers,  doctors.  Trained  for  the  law, 
the  time  came  when  a  clear  mind  taught  me  that  law  in 
practice  meant  injustice  in  practice;  and  I  left  the  law, 
to  share  my  vision  of  truth  through  speaking  and  writing. 
I  came  to  New  York;  and  in  the  midst  of  three  lean  years 
of  futile  bombarding  of  the  magazines  with  fiction,  I  was 
candidate  for  Alderman  in  a  sardined  East  Side  section. 
Again  I  met  Debs— spoke  on  the  platform  with  him,  and 
noted  his  marvelous  ability  again  to  play  on  the  strung 
heart-chords  of  his  hearers. 

"My  desire  as  a  poet,"  adds  Wood,  "is  to  phrase  the 
desires  of  myself  and  men  and  women  today:  especially 
their  groping  after  love,  after  beauty,  and  after  justice. 
My  aim  as  a  novelist  is  to  fix  the  fluidic  present  for  the 
present  and  the  future  to  know,  that  it  may  become  an 
ameliorative  present  and  a  lightened  future.  One  of  man's 
chief  dynamic  expressions  is  the  mass  expression  of  poli- 
tics; and  only  the  Socialist  movement  shows  any  conception 
of  the  causes  of  the  social  ills  and  a  workable  remedy. 
Hence  I  am  in  it  and  of  it;  and  Debs  is  today  the  crest  of 
its  wave.  Life's  problems  will  only  begin  their  solution 
when  Socialism  triumphs;  and  I  shall  be  in  the  battle  for 
the  next  steps. 


66  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

"It  is  especially  intolerable  that  our  nation  should  still 
be  so  unenlightened  that  it  jails  men  for  their  opinions. 
May  this  year,  and  this  book,  help  end  that  blotl" 

ELLIS  B.  HARRIS 

Ellis  B.  Harris  for  over  thirty  years  stood  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  'Gene  Debs.  He  was  with  him  back  in  the 
early  days  when  Debs  was  the  secretary  of  the  Brotherhood 
of  Locomotive  Firemen;  he  went  through  the  American 
Railway  Union  strike  with  him,  and  paid  his  share  of  suf- 
fering; he  became  a  Socialist  with  him,  and  during  Debs* 
last  presidential  campaign  he  was  his  publicity  manager. 
He  writes: 

"  'Gene  and  I  were  associated  as  members  of  the  Broth- 
erhood of  Locomotive  Firemen  for  several  years  before 
either  of  us  thought  of  becoming  Socialists,  and  while  our 
relations  were  not  very  intimate  there  was  always  a  close 
bond  of  friendship  between  the  rank  and  file  and  our  Grand 
Secretary.  He  was  'Our  'Gene'  then  the  same  as  now- 
just  as  loyal,  thoughtful  and  affectionate  towards  his  fel- 
lows. 

Of  course  you  know  of  the  A.  R.  U.,  the  organization 
builded  after  the  weakness  of  the  old  craft  form  became  so 
plain  to  the  more  progressive  railroad  men.  I  was  a  loco- 
motive engineer  at  that  time  and  was  one  of  the  first  to  line 
up  with  those  who  were  opposed  to  an  'aristocracy  of  la- 
bor,' a  slave  'aristocracy'  at  that.  The  defeat  of  the  A. 
R.  U.  is  laid  at  the  door  of  Grover  Cleveland.  But  the 
blame  should  rest  where  it  belongs,  with  the  officials  of 
the  craft  unions  who  realized  that  if  we  won  they  would 
lose  their  jobs  and  fat  salaries.  Joining  hands  with  the 
General  Managers'  Association,  they  used  every  means  in 
their  power  to  destroy  Debs  and  the  A.  R.  U.  Grover  Cleve- 
land sent  the  troops  to  Chicago  against  the  protests  of  Gov- 
ernor Altgeld,  but  it  was  "brotherhood"  troops  of  strike 
breakers  that  defeated  the  American  Railway  Union.    They 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  67 

cut  down  the  flower,  but  the  seed  still  propagates  in  the 
warm  throbbing  hearts  of  those  comrades  who  stood  near- 
est and  dearest  to  Debs. 

"I  was  followed  by  the  black  list  for  three  years.  Times 
were  hard  and  it  was  impossible  for  many  to  find  employ- 
ment of  any  kind;  some  lost  courage,  and  a  few  destroyed 
themselves;  many  of  the  most  cowardly  condemned  Debs 
and  the  A.  R.  U.  delegates  that  stood  with  him;  it  was 
natural  for  real  comrades  to  stick  closer,  to  keep  the  flag 
flying.  Debs  never  ceased  to  be  our  ideal;  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  we  love  one  another  and  that  such  affection  in- 
spires whatever  poetry  lies  in  our  hearts.  It  is  so 
much  nicer  to  sing  of  a  manhood  preserved  than  to  weep 
over  a  job  lost." 

Harris  wrote  his  poem  while  meditating  over  the  words 
of  an  attorney  who  said,  after  meeting  Debs,  "I  think  your 
friend  is  a  very  great  man,  but  he  is  a  dreamer,  Harris,  a 
dreamer."  "And  of  course  he  is  a  dreamer,"  continues 
Harris.  "And  we  who  know  anything  know  that  to  the 
dreamers  alone  must  go  the  praise  of  all  great  accomplish- 
ment." 

LINCOLN  PHIFER 

When  Debs  was  on  the  staff  of  the  Appeal  to  Reason, 
working  with  him  day  by  day  was  Lincoln  Phifer.  And 
the  poem.  "He  Is  a  Friend,"  expressed  the  opinion  of  the 
people  of  Girard  in  regard  to  'Gene  Debs.  Every  one  loved 
him,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest.  It  is  said  that  no 
tramp  ever  came  to  Girard  who  did  not  know  'Gene;  they 
also  knew  when  payday  came  and  where  to  borrow  the 
price  of  a  meal.  Every  child  was  on  intimate  terms  with 
this  great  Friend :  not  only  did  he  love  them  but  he  showed 
this  love  in  ways  that  are  very  expressive  to  the  heart  of 
childhood,  emptying  his  pockets  for  whatever  would  de- 
light them.  A  touching  incident  of  Debs  and  the  children  is 
told  by  one  who  lived  in  Girard  at  the  time.    Debs  had  just 


68  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

taken  his  young  friends  into  a  candy  store  and  filled  them 
up  with  soda  pop  and  candy.  As  they  came  out  of  the 
door  a  little  ragged  colored  girl,  who  had  not  heen  ob- 
served before,  timidly  clutched  at  Debs'  coat  and  said, 
"Mistah  Debs,  I'se  a  little  chile  too."  Debs  picked  her  up 
tenderly  and  gave  her  the  treat  of  her  life. 

After  Lincoln  Phifer  left  the  Appeal  and  started  a 
paper  of  his  own,  he  wrote  to  Debs  and  asked  him  to  write 
something  for  it.  Debs  responded  in  his  usual  manner— 
and  the  result  was  the  three  jewels,  "Man,  Woman,  and 
Child,"  which  Phifer  has  now  gathered  into  a  little  book- 
let which  he  calls  "The  Debs  Trilogy."  When  Phifer  tried 
to  pay  for  them.  Debs  refused  to  take  a  penny,  but  insisted 
on  sending  money  to  help  the  paper  along.  "God  bless 
him,"  says  Phifer,  "there  never  was  a  man  of  tenderer  heart 
or  soul  more  courageous." 

JESSIE  WALLACE  HUaHAN 

Dr.  Jessie  Wallace  Hughan  of  Barnard  College  is  well 
known  in  academic  circles  as  an  author  and  an  official  of 
the  Inter-Collegiate  Socialist  Society.  She  has  been  asso- 
ciated for  a  number  of  years  with  the  Rand  School  of 
Social  Science,  where  in  1910  and  1911  she  served  as  an 
instructor  in  Economics.  She  is  the  author  of  "American 
Socialism  of  the  Present  Day,"  "The  Facts  of  Socialism," 
and  "Socialism  of  Today." 

"Last  June,"  writes  Dr.  Hughan,  "when  I  was  begin- 
ning a  summer  in  the  cool  country  and  'Gene  at  Atlanta, 
I  made  a  little  vow  that  each  day  of  the  vacation  I  would 
spend  either  fifteen  minutes  or  fifteen  cents  for  him.  It 
was  a  humble  little  vow,  but  it  meant  a  number  of  letters 
to  papers  and  officials,  some  urgmg  on  of  Socialists  and  a 
few  poems  that  have  found  a  landing  place.  I  was  anxious 
to  form  a  group  of  persons  who  could  make  the  same 
promise  for  this  summer,  but  it  did  not  seem  possible." 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  69 

MIRIAM  ALLEN  DE  FORD 

Miriam  Allen  de  Ford  was  walking  down  Market 
street,  San  Francisco,  when  a  huge  military  parade  surged 
by  her.  Its  martial  splendor  pierced  her  heart  with  sorrow- 
ful memories;  and  at  last,  filled  with  a  great  weariness,  she 
turned  away.  Lifting  her  eyes  upward  she  found  herself 
gazing,  as  by  some  miracle,  into  the  calm,  faithful  eyes  of 
Eugene  Debs.  He  was  smiling  down  upon  her  from  the 
cover  of  the  "Liberator,"  which  some  newsdealer  was  dis- 
playing at  the  top  of  his  stand.  This  was  the  origin  of 
the  poem  "Debs  in  Prison." 

"Its  only  merit  in  my  eyes,"  she  says,  "lies  in  its 
voicing,  however  feebly,  the  love  and  respect  for  Debs  that 
so  many  thousands  of  less  articulate  comrades  feel  as 
strongly  as  we  who  can  give  expression  to  our  emotions. 
Debs  has  come  to  symbolize  to  us  Socialism  in  America, 
and  our  personal  affection  for  him  is  heightened  by  our 
feeling  that  through  his  martyrdom  we  are  all  testifying  to 
the  world  our  convictions  and  principles.  We  can  thank 
Debs,  to  whom  we  already  owed  so  much,  for  having  re- 
vealed us  to  ourselves." 

WILLIAM  ELLERY  LEONARD 

"If  in  any  way,  however  slight,  I  can,  as  a  human 
being,  or  as  an  American— whose  ancestors  fought  beside 
Washington  in  one  of  the  few  wars  ever  really  fought  by 
the  people  for  the  people,— serve  this  good  and  great 
man,  so  foully  repudiated  by  the  paltry  tyrannies  of  the 
moment,  I  count  it  certainly  a  good  use  of  my  life  and 
strength."  These  are  the  words  of  the  scholarly  Dr.  Wil- 
liam EUery  I  Leonard,  poet,  author,  and  professor  of  Eng- 
lish in  the  University  of  Wisconsin. 

Dr.  Leonard  does  not  know  Debs  personally,  and  up  to 
the  time  of  the  trial  Eugene  V.  Debs  was  but  a  name  to 
him.    "I  read  of  the  conviction,"  he  says,  "and  sensed  its 


70  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

significance,  and  followed  this  reading  up  with  particulars. 
It  was  the  speech  at  the  Trial  that  won  me  and  made  me  his 
forever." 

To  understand  Dr.  Leonard's  feeling  for  Debs  one  must 
know  something  of  his  "New  England  boyhood,  passed,"  to 
use  his  own  words,  "a  few  miles  from  Emerson's  home 
town  of  Concord,  a  boyhood  indeed  not  uncompanioned  by 
grave  old  men  who  had  known  and  stood  by  Emerson  him- 
self, John  Brown,  Whittier,  and  all  the  sturdy  Abolition- 
ists—old men  who  vitalized  for  me  (Edward  Everett  Hale 
was  one  of  them)  the  meaning  of  an  Heroic  American, 
and  those  legendary  names.  Garrison,  Lovejoy,  Phillips, 
and  the  names  hereabove, — a  tradition  which  I  find  rein- 
carnated in  the  man  we  are  thinking  of  today.  It  is  this 
that  makes  Debs  mean  so  much  to  me:  he  realizes  my  boy- 
hood visions  of  the  Heroic  Americans,  the  man  firmly 
planted  in  his  Instincts,  unmoved  by  Opinion,  and  un- 
afraid before  Authority,  in  the  assertion  of  his  own  inviola- 
ble integrity." 

Not  only  does  Debs  appeal  to  Leonard  as  a  great  Amer- 
ican Liberator.  "I  see  him  in  another  great  tradition,"  he 
continues,— "in  the  tradition  of  the  Noble  Lovers— the  men 
who  have  a  genius  for  putting  their  kind  arms  around  all 
the  race,  the  men  in  the  tradition  of  Jesus,  of  Lincoln,  of 
"Walt  Whitman— and  I  see  that  my  names  are  here  again 
mostly  American  names,  so  I  say  he  is  in  the  tradition  par- 
ticularly of  the  American  Lovers." 

Dr.  Leonard  predicts,  "Debs'  speech  at  the  Court  will 
some  day  be  in  the  Anthologies  of  American  Patriotism — 
when  the  Espionage  Act  has  joined  the  iniquitous  Fugitive 
Slave  Law,  for  his  heroism  and  his  integrity  no  less  are  a 
product  of  the  American  Spirit." 

GEORGE  BICKNELL 

"He  is  one  of  the  kindest,  humblest,  most  chivalrous 
men  I  have  ever  known,"  says  George  Bicknell,  poet,  ar- 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  71 

tist,  professor,  and  Chautauqua  manager,  of  his  dear  friend, 
Eugene  Debs.  Bicknell  has  known  Debs  for  many  years 
and  was  at  one  time  a  resident  of  Terre  Haute  where  he 
was  in  intimate  contact  with  him.  Speaking  from  his 
personal  observations  Bicknell  says,  "His  life  is  never  too 
full  to  do  little  acts  and  little  deeds  of  kindness." 

"I  watched  him,  unobserved,"  continues  Bicknell,  "one 
evening  just  at  dusk,  as  he  was  leaving  his  office  in  a  cold 
drizzling  rain,  walk  six  blocks.  In  passing  this  distance  it 
took  him  not  less  than  a  half  hour,  for  he  stopped  six 
times  to  salute  and  converse  with  some  one  he  knew,  an 
odd  but  democratic  list.  One  a  business  man  of  the  town, 
one  a  poet,  one  a  drayman,  one  an  old  blind  man,  one  a  col- 
ored man,  and  one  a  little  child." 

Once  as  Debs  was  coming  out  of  a  railway  station  he  met 
Bicknell  as  the  latter  was  about  to  take  a  train.  "Nothing 
would  do  him,"  says  Bicknell,  "but  that  he  must  turn  and 
carry  my  suit-case  to  the  rear  where  I  was  boarding  the 
train,  almost  a  block  away." 

"It  was  through  me  a  few  years  ago,"  Bicknell  adds, 
"that  a  Chautauqua  Bureau  offered  Debs  twenty  dates  dur- 
ing the  month  of  August  at  $150  each,  but  Debs  declined 
it  to  work  in  the  interest  of  labor  for  a  little  more  than  his 
expenses." 

When  Debs  was  first  indicted  and  arrested,  before  his 
trial,  July  3,  1918,  Bicknell  sent  him  the  following  mes- 
sage: 

My  dear  Friend: 

I  see  you  smiling  through  it  all. 

Saying,  "They  know  not  what  they  do," 
But  if  they  seal  the  prison  wall, 
Our  hearts  will  bleed  for  you. 

SARA  BARD  FIELD 

Sara  Bard  Field  is  a  newspaper  woman  and  a  worker 
in  the  suffrage  movement.     She  has   lived   all   over  the 


72  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

world.  In  1900  she  went  to  India  as  the  wife  of  a  mis- 
sionary. In  1910  she  covered  as  a  newspaper  woman  the 
McNamara  case  in  Los  Angeles.  During  the  Panama  Pa- 
cific Exposition  she  was  elected  envoy,  by  the  western  women 
voters,  to  carry  a  monster  suffrage  petition  to  the  Presi- 
dent, and  her  spectacular  automobile  trip  from  San  Fran- 
cisco to  Washington  is  well  remembered.  When  she  ar- 
rived at  the  capital  and  was  received  by  the  President 
with  three  hundred  of  her  co-workers,  he  expressed  himself 
favorably  on  woman  suffrage  for  the  first  time. 

It  was  while  working  in  a  poor  parish  in  Cleveland  that 
she  became  a  Socialist.  "Debs  was  one  of  the  instruments," 
she  says,  "in  not  only  tearing  down  the  old  order  in  my 
mind  but  in  building  ap  the  new." 

GUY  BOGART 

Guy  Bogart,  California  poet,  is  a  Hoosier  by  birth,  and 
for  many  years  was  a  close  and  intimate  friend  of  'Gene, 
and  "Theodore  the  Beloved"  in  their  home  town  of  Terre 
Haute. 

When  Guy  was  a  young  newspaper  man  just  out  of 
college  he  first  met  'Gene— and  that  meeting  changed  his 
life.  "  'G«ne  came  home  to  Terre  Haute  the  night  before 
election,"  he  says,  "and  James  O'Neal  gave  me  a  seat  on 
the  platform  to  report  the  meetmg  for  the  democratic  or- 
gan. The  Grand  Theatre  was  overflowing  two  hours  be- 
fore the  meeting,  and  when  Debs  finally  arrived,  so  worn 
and  exhausted  from  weeks  of  campaigning  that  he  could 
hardly  stand,  he  found  himself  compelled  to  make  ad- 
dresses to  two  large  audiences  in  different  auditoriums. 
When  'Gene  grasped  my  hand  that  night  there  was  a  spir- 
itual touch  that  was  as  convincing  as  the  terrible  earnest- 
ness of  his  loving  pleading.  The  next  morning  as  I  entered 
the  Building  Trades  Hall  on  my  rounds  for  news,  I  said 
to  one  of  the  leading  business  agents,  'Tom,  let's  vote  the 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  73 

straight  Socialist  ticket  today!  He  shook  hands  on  the 
pact— and  'Gene  got  two  more  votes." 

In  his  reminiscences  of  "My  Big  Brother  'Gene,"  writ- 
ten after  Debs  had  been  sent  to  prison,  Guy  gives  us  inti- 
mate glimpses  of  their  beautiful  friendship,  which  has 
grown  deeper  and  richer  with  the  passing  years. 

"It  has  been  a  life  of  giving  on  the  part  of  Debs," 
says  Guy.  "Early  in  1918,  on  the  death  of  a  California 
comrade,  a  house  and  lot  in  Long  Beach  were  willed  to 
Comrade  Debs.  He  forwarded  to  me  at  once  all  of  the 
papers,  and  was  a  bit  impatient  until  the  property  had  been 
transferred  to  the  State  Executive  Committee  of  the  Cali- 
fornia Socialist  Party." 

JOHN  MILTON  SCOTT 

"John  Milton  Scott  has  the  gift  of  the  singing  line," 
said  Edwin  Markham  once  in  describing  his  friend's 
poetry.  The  Rev.  John  Milton  Scott  is  beloved  throughout 
the  country  for  his  spiritual  words  of  faith  and  healing. 
Many  will  remember  "The  Grail,"  a  little  magazine  of  spir- 
itual truth  which  he  edited  for  a  number  of  years.  His 
best  known  book  is  "Kindly  Light— A  Little  Book  of 
Yearning."  "Verily  John  Milton  Scott  is  one  of  God's 
prophets  I"  wrote  a  young  man  to  his  mother  after  reading 
it.  "His  words  are  evidence  of  the  fact  that  the  brightest 
thinkers  of  modern  times  are  beginning  to  get  a  true  con- 
ception of  the  Christ  Life;  and  whoever  can  do  that,  and 
teach  it  to  others,  must  be  ranked  among  the  greatest 
benefactors  of  the  human  race,  and  so  we  thank  you  again 
and  again  for  'Kindly  Light!'" 

SIEGFRIED  SASSOON 

Siegfried  Sassoon,  the  young  English  poet,  fought 
three  times  in  France,  and  once  in  Palestine,  and  won  the 
Military  Cross  for  an  act  of  bravery  on  the  battlefield.  He 


74  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

loathes  wax  because  he  knows  what  war  is.  When  the 
past  conflict  first  started  he  entered  into  it  with  all  the 
heroic  idealism  of  youth— but  soon  he  awakened  to  the 
horrible  reality  of  it.  He  writes:  "Let  no  one  ever  from 
henceforth  say  a  word  in  any  way  countenancing  war.  It 
is  dangerous  even  to  speak  of  how  here  and  there  the  in- 
dividual may  gain  some  hardship  of  soul  by  it.  For  war  is 
hell,  and  those  who  institute  it  are  criminals.  Were  there 
anything  to  say  for  it,  it  should  not  be  said,  for  its  spir- 
itual disasters  far  outweigh  any  of  its  advantages." 

'Tou  snug-faced  crowds  with  kindling  eye 
Who  cheer  when  soldier  lads  march  by. 
Sneak  home  and  pray  you'll  never  know 
The  hell  where  youtii  and  laughter  go." 

And  Siegfried  Sassoon  in  honoring  the  name  of  Eu- 
gene Debs  speaks  not  for  himself  alone,  but  for  the  thou- 
sands of  idealistic  youths  who  upon  the  battlefields  of  Eu- 
rope offered  their  lives  for  the  same  principles  that  Debs 
has  championed— Liberty,  Brotherhood,  and  Peace! 

SARA  N.  CLEGHORN 

Sara  N.  Cleghom,  author  of  "A  Turnpike  Lady,"  "The 
Spinster,"  "Fellow  Captains," "  "Portraits  and  Protests," 
etc.,  is  of  a  deeply  religious  temperament,  and  believes  in 
practicing  the  principles  of  Christ.  It  was  "through  try- 
ing to  be  a  Christian"  that  she  became  a  Socialist.  She 
writes : 

"I  was  brought  up  on  the  New  York  Tribune.  Such 
were  my  early  ideas  about  Eugene  Debs  as  the  Tribune 
would  naturally  inculcate.  I  no  more  supposed  that  he  was 
a  prophet,  an  apostolic  Christian,  a  modem  Franciscan,  a 
Tolstoyan,  than  I  supposed  a  short-haired  woman  in 
bloomers  could  be  comely  and  modest !  Nor  even  after  I  had 
joined  the  Socialist  Party  did  I  ever  hear  him  speak,  or 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  75 

touch  those  magnetic  hands  of  which  everybody  speaks.  It 
was  his  trial,  the  glorious  witness  which  he  then  bore,  that 
illuminated  his  name  and  fame  for  me,  forever.  So  ut- 
terly true  and  whole-hearted,  so  unimbittered,  so  tranquil, 
so  gracious,  so  Bayard-like,  he  then  displayed  his  per- 
sonality, that  his  arrest  and  conviction  seemed  a  mere 
frame  for  it.  I  could  forget  in  the  inspiration  he  was  to 
me  among  so  many  all  my  own  cowardice  at  not  being  in 
prison  too— my  own  hopeless  longing  to  be  true  also  to  my 
own  conscience.  The  Lord  Jesus,  to  Whom  I  was  not  faith- 
ful, triumphed  in  him." 

EUGENE  FIELD 

The  friendship  of  Debs  and  Field  was  as  brief  as  it  was 
beautiful— for  death  claimed  Field  two  years  after  their 
first  meeting. 

"Eugene  Field  was  by  nature  a  prince  of  fine  fellows," 
says  Debs.  "I  never  knew  a  more  genial,  generous  com- 
panion; a  more  loyal,  steadfast  friend.  I  met  him  for  the 
first  time  in  the  spring  of  1893,  on  which  occasion  he  pre- 
sented me  with  several  volumes  of  his  poetry  and  prose 
writings,  inscribed  in  his  wonderfully  small  and  exact 
hand." 

The  inscriptions  in  these  books,  which  still  grace  the  li- 
brary of  'Gene's  home,  are: — 

"To  Eugene  V.  Debs,  Esq., 
"With  the  very  cordial  regards  of 
"Eugene  Field.  March  3,  1893." 

(Written  in  "A  Little  Book  of  Profitable  Tales.") 
"Eugene  V.  Debs,  Esq., 
"With  very  much  love  from 
"Eugene  Field.  April  7,  1893." 

(Written  in  "A  Second  Book  of  Verse.") 
"Whenever  I've  this  heartache  or  this  feelin'  in  my  throat, 
I  lay  it  all  to  thinkin'  of  Casey's  Tabble  dote." 
"Eugene  Field.    March  8,  1893." 


76  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

"Field  was  tall  and  spare,  though  not  ungainly,"  says 
Debs.  "As  an  entertainer  he  was  at  his  best  in  the  pathetic 
passages  of  his  own  character  sketches.  He  rendered  these 
with  marv'elous  effect  upon  his  hearers. 

"Like  Riley,  whom  he  resembled  strongly  in  many  ways, 
he  was  an  intense  lover  of  children,  and  if  there  were  any 
little  ones  about  he  was  very  apt  to  forsake  the  grown 
folks.  To  the  children  he  was  himself  in  all  the  exuberance 
of  his  own  buoyant  childhood.  To  them  he  sang  the  songs 
they  inspired  in  him,  the  soft,  sweet  lullabies;  to  them  be 
told  the  wonderful  stories  drawn  from  their  own  fairyland 
imagination,  and  with  them  he  romped  and  played  with  all 
the  zest  and  abandon  of  his  care-fi*ee  soul. 

"Field  came  to  Terre  Haute  soon  after  I  first  met  him. 
He  was  then  on  the  lyceum  platform  with  George  W.  Cable, 
the  novelist,  and  they  were  giving  public  entertainments 
consisting  of  readings  from  their  works.  On  this  occa- 
sion they  were  greeted  by  a  fine  audience  at  the  opera 
house.  Field  surpassed  himself,  and  the  program  was 
greatly  extended  by  the  repeated  encores  to  which  he  gra- 
ciously responded. 

"That  night  we  were  the  guests  of  a  mutual  friend,  and 
while  sitting  in  the  drawing  room,  Field,  who  had  heard  the 
voices  of  children  in  an  adjoining  room,  quietly  disappeared. 
Soon  thereafter  shouts  of  joy  and  peals  of  merriment  rang 
through  the  house.  Something  unusually  frolicsome  had 
broken  out  among  the  children.  Wbat  could  it  be?  The 
door  was  opened,  and  there  was  Field,  in  his  dress  suit, 
minus  his  coat,  down  on  all  fours,  in  the  center  of  a  group 
of  excited  children,  all  screaming  with  delight.  Such  a 
picture ! 

"Field  was  in  his  element  among  the  children.  He  was 
one  of  them.  H]e  played  and  romped  and  rolled  on  the 
floor  and  kicked  up  his  heels  in  all  the  reckless  abandon 
of  a  boy  just  out  of  school.  He  made  grimaces,  sang  funny 
songs,  told  funny  stories  and  mocked  funny  people.    From 


DEBS   AND    THE   POETS  77 

the  depths  of  his  great  heart  he  loved  the  children.  And 
how  they  loved  him!" 

Field  was  not  only  one  with  Debs  in  his  love  for  the 
children,  but  like  Debs  he  despised  war  in  all  its  manifesta- 
tions. In  his  Auto-Analysis  he  says,  "I  hate  wars,  armies, 
soldiers,  and  guns."  Commenting  on  this  Slason  Thompson 
(Field's  most  comprehensive  biographer)  says,  "Field  had 
the  strongest  possible  aversion  to  violence  or  brutality  of 
any  kind.  He  considered  capital  punishment  barbarous. 
He  was  not  opposed  to  it  because  he  regarded  it  as  ineffec- 
tive as  a  punishment  or  a  deterrent  of  crime,  but  simply 
because  taking  life,  and  especially  human  life,  was  ab- 
horrent to  him.  Hence  his  'hatred'  of  'wars,  armies,  soldiers 
and  g-uns.' " 

"Of  peace  I  know  and  can  speak,"  says  Field  in  one 
of  his  short  stories,  "of  peace,  with  its  solace  of  love, 
plenty,  honor,  fame,  happiness,  and  its  pathetic  tragedy  of 
poverty,  heartache,  disappointment,  tears,  bereavement.  Of 
war  I  know  nothing,  and  never  shall  know;  it  is  not  in  my 
heart  or  my  hand  to  break  that  law  which  God  enjoined 
from  Sinai  and  Christ  confirmed  in  Galilee.  I  do  not  know 
of  war." 

Field  was  not  only  opposed  to  war  but  to  all  forms  of 
human  slavery.  "Everything  he  wrote  in  prose  or  verse," 
says  Thompson,  "reflects  his  contempt  for  earth's  mighty 
and  his  sympathy  for  earth's  million  mites."  Field's  father, 
like  Riley's,  was  an  Abolitionist  in  the  days  of  its  unpopu- 
larity. He  it  was  who  first  took  up  the  famous  Dred  Scott 
case.  As  a  lawyer  he  prepared  the  first  brief  for  Dred 
Scott,  and  without  pay  fought  the  case  for  nine  years.  If 
Eugene  Field  were  alive  today  he  would  without  doubt  see 
the  similarity  in  the  case  of  Dred  Scott  and  the  case  of 
Eugene  Debs— both  historic  examples  of  the  miscarriage  of 
justice. 

If  Field  were  alive  today  he  would  stand  by  'Gene  as 
faithfully  as  he  did  once  before  in  an  hour  of  bitterness 


78  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

and  persecution.  During  the  Pullman  strike  when  the 
clouds  began  to  gather  Debs  found  in  his  mail  box  one 
morning  this  note: 

"Dear  'Gene :  I  hear  that  you  are  to  be  arrested.  When 
that  time  comes  you  will  need  a  friend.  I  want  to  be  that 
friend.  Eugene  Field." 

"This  was  high  proof  of  personal  loyalty,"  says  Debs, 
"at  a  time  when  intense  bitterness  prevailed,  and  when  such 
an  avowal  meant  ostracism  and  execration." 

"The  last  message  tiiat  came  to  me  from  Eugene  Field," 
writes  Debs,  "was  followed  closely  by  his  death,  which 
came  so  suddenly  that  it  caused  a  painful  shock  to  his 
many  friends.  I  was  in  Woodstock  at  the  time.  Field 
wrote: 

"  'You  are  now  settled  in  your  summer  quarters,  and 
I'll  soon  be  out  to  see  you.'  A  day  or  two  later  I  picked  up 
the  morning  paper  to  note  with  profoundest  sorrow  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  death.  He  had  not  been  ill.  He  was 
still  in  the  rosy  flush  of  his  young  manhood.  He  had  re- 
tired as  usual  and  'fell  into  that  dreamless  sleep  that  kisses 
down  his  eyelids  stilL'" 

HORACE  TRAUBEL 

The  literary  executor  of  Walt  Whitman  was  one  of 
Debs'  most  devoted  friends.  The  following  letter  shows 
something  of  his  feeling  for  the  man.  It  was  written  from 
the  city  where  Walt  Whitman  lived  and  is  buried : 

"Camden,  Jan.  13,  1907. 

"Dear  Brother: — I  know  you  are  busy,  I  don't  want  to 
crowd  in.  But  I  want  to  send  you  my  love.  There  is  al- 
ways time  for  love.  You  are  a  man  upon  whom  love  has 
showered  its  darling  gifts.  Cherish  them.  They  are  worth 
while.  You  have  troubles.  I  know  about  them.  But  you 
have  lovers,  and  the  light  is  full  in  your  face,  and  you  are 
leading  men  on  towards  the  fulfillment  of  man's  noblest 
dream.     I  know  that  though  sorrow  comes  you  are  still 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  79 

satisfied.  A  man  with  work  in  him,  with  love  in  him,  may 
always  be  happy.  He  is  always  next  the  throne.  Good- 
night. Horace." 

CARL  SANDBUBG 

Like  many  of  'Gene  Debs'  admirers  Carl  Sandburg,  the 
vigorous  young  Chicago  poet,  was  at  one  time  a  warrior 
and  saw  active  service  in  Porto  Rico.  He  was  only  about 
twenty  years  old  when  he  marched  away  with  Company  C, 
of  the  6th  Illinois  Volunteers.  As  a  poet  Sandburg  is 
unique  in  contemporary  letters.  He  is  rugged  and  elemen- 
tal, yet  out  of  his  ruggedness  spring  the  most  exquisite 
flowers.  When  asked  to  send  some  word  for  'Gene  he  re- 
plied, "Everything  I've  done  so  far  on  'Gene  I've  thrown 
away.  I  would  like  to  be  along  with  Bynner,  Wood,  Sara 
Bard  Field  and  the  rest  of  these  fine  fellows,  and  if  I  get 
a  Debs'  piece  soon  I'll  send  it  on  to  you.  Otherwise  we'll 
wait  and  hope.  And  I'm  glad  you  wrote  me  about  such  a 
thing."  A  little  later  his  tribute  was  ready.  "I  hope  to 
mail  it  to  you  on  July  4,"  he  wrote,  "a  date  apropos." 

GEORGE  F.  HIBNER 

George  F.  Hibner,  poet,  miner,  lecturer  and  farmer,  was 
for  several  years  a  pleader  on  the  Socialist  platform,  and 
is  now  living  with  his  wife  and  five  children  on  a  farm  in 
Sagle,  Idaho. 

It  was  at  a  Chautauqua  in  1906  that  he  and  his  wife 
first  met  'Gene;  since  then  they  have  met  many  times 
and  become  devoted  friends.  "Nowhere  else,"  says  Hib- 
ner, "have  we  met  the  eyes,  the  face,  the  music-words,  the 
full-rounded  man  that's  'Gene."  His  tribute  to  the  Great 
Leader,  "Meeting  Debs,"  was  written  after  hearing  'Gene's 
address  in  Pocatello,  Idaho,  "which  haunts  me  yet,"  he 
says,  "with  its  beauty,  its  power,  its  noble  human  plea." 
Everyone  there  was  moved  to  tears  by  'Gene's  fiery  sim- 
plici^. 


80  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

MAX  EASTMAN 

The  editor  of  the  "Liberator,"  and  author  of  "Color  of 
Life"  and  "The  Enjoyment  of  Poetry"  was  on  trial  for  his 
liberty  at  the  same  time  as  Debs.  One  day  in  the  court- 
room Eastman  asked  Debs  if  his  trial  was  not  a  strain  on 
him.  "No,"  replied  Debs,  "it  doesn't  rest  on  my  mind 
much.  You  see,  if  I'm  sent  to  jaU  it  can't  be  for  a  very 
long  time,  whereas  if  you  go  it  may  be  an  important  part 
of  your  life.  That's  why  my  heart  has  been  with  you 
boys  all  these  months."  The  utter  selflessness  of  the  man 
could  not  be  better  shown  than  in  this  answer. 


Acknowledgments  for  permission  to  use  material  in  this 
book  are  due  to  "The  New  York  Call,"  the  "Liberator"  the 
"Milwaukee  Leader,"  also  to  B.  W.  Huebsch  and  Stephen 
M.  Reynolds.  Thanks  are  due  to  many  authors  who  wrote 
especially  for  this  volume,  also  to  Witter  Bynner,  Theodore 
Debs,  and  Kate  Crane  Gartz  for  generous  help. 


DEBS  HAS  VISITORS 

By  Charles  Erskine  Scott  Wood 


(The  author  of  the  following  remarkable  bit  of  eloquence 
was  graduated  from  West  Point  in  1874,  and  after  serving 
in  the  Nez  Perce  and  also  the  Bannock  and  Piute  Indian 
wars  resigned  to  take  up  the  practice  of  law  in  Portland, 
Oregon.  He  is  the  author  of  a  widely  read  book  of  poems, 
"The  Poet  in  the  Desert.") 

The  cell  of  Eugene  Debs  in  Atlanta  Prison.  Night. 
Moonlight  streaming  through  the  barred  window,  making 
a  pool  of  light  on  the  floor.  A  small  wooden  table.  A 
wooden  chair.  A  narrow  iron  prison  bed.  Debs  is  seated 
on  the  bed.  The  Spirit  of  Walt  Whitrmin  appears  in  the 
moonlight. 

Whitman:     I  heard  that  the  slave-masters  had  jailed  you 
Because  you  spoke  Democracy; 
The  real  Bread-and-butter  Democracy, 
The  right  of  the  little  children  to  live  and 

laugh. 
I  have  come  to  greet  you,  Debs, 
I,  Walt  Whitman,  a  chanter  of  Democracy. 
Give  me  your  hand. 
I  salute  you— 'Gene,  Camarado. 

Debs:  Walt  Whitman?    The  Poet  of  America? 

The  Poet  of  Freedom? 

Whitman  :    I  was  fooled.  Debs. 
I  was  fooled. 

81 


82  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

I  loved  the  young  America — 
I  loved  the  child  from  Rebellion's  loins, 
Tumbling  the  old  toys  about— smashing,  break- 
ing, building, 
Inviting  the  oppressed— inviting  the  free,  in- 
viting the  revolutionists; 
German,  Dutchman,  Pole,  Irishman,  Russian 

and  Dago- 
Gathering    the    free,    rebellious    souls    from 

every  land, 
As  a  hen  gathers  her  chickens  under  her  wing. 
I  loved  the  lusty  young  child  America, 
But  he  has  grown  up  fat-paimched. 
Gluttonous,  a  bully,  a  lover  of  harlots. 
I  chanted  a  Democracy  which  was  not. 
I  sang  a  brotherhood  which  could  not  be. 
I  confidently  caroled  a  freedom  which  is  not 

yet. 
I  was  a  vain  boaster,  a  user  of  words. 
I  have  come  to  take  you  by  the  hand  and  say 
To  you  and  the  stars  out  there  and  to  the  big 

enveloping  night, 
You  are  the  real  Mason  of  Democracy; 
Building  true  to  the  plumb  line. 
Clicking  the  comers  off  the  bricks 
With  your  shining  trowel: 
Resolutely  cutting  the  brick  in  two 
"With  a  sharp,  swift  stroke,  till  it  fit ; 
Making  strong  the  wall  forever. 
John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  swinging  in  the 

hangman's  noose. 
At  Harper's  Ferry, 
Sang  a  stronger  note  for  Freedom  than  I, 

Walt  Whitman, 
A  chanter  of  Democracy ;  user  of  words. 
And  you,  'Gene  Debs,  jailed  by  the  insolence 
of  the  slave-drivers, 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  83 

Are  a  bigger  teacher  of  a  bigger  democracy 
Than  ever  was  I— Walt  Whitman- 
Boaster— User  of  words. 

Debs:  Truth  lives  in  your  words; 

They  have  been  our  inspiration 

And  shall  be  the  inspiration  of  the  real  sons 

of  America 
When  I  and  my  generation  are  silent. 
The  noisy  mob  outside  your  door  has  betrayed 

you  J 
But  in  the  secret  chambers  of  your  soul 
You  have  taken  Freedom  for  your  bride; 
She  will  never  betray  you. 

Whitman  :    By  God,  I  have  taken  Freedom  for  my  bride ; 
And  I  declare  her  beautiful — 
Strong  as  a  young  giant,  fearless; 
Beautiful  in  her  strength,  terrible. 
She  will  not  betray  me. 
I  will  await  her.    She  will  come. 
This  cell  expands  beyond  the  world. 
I  see  coming  from  it  the  crimson  sunrise. 
I  hear  the  roar  of  Freedom  clear  round  the 

globe. 
Ceaselessly,  endlessly,  pounding  every  shore; 
Spreading  its  white  surf  as  a  girdle  round  the 

world. 
Husky,  deep  throated,  menacing. 
Not  to  be  denied.    Hoarsely  demanding. 
Russia,  England,  Ireland,  Egypt,  India, 
France,  Germany,  Scandinavia,  Japan, 
Mysterious  China  with  eyelids  drooping; 
Brooding  on  the  centuries    and    reluctant  to 

awake; 
And  America,   Freedom's  chosen  child,  who 

has  befouled  and  betrayed  her— 


84  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

But  I  will  await  her, 

My  Terrible  and  Splendid  One. 

Confidently  I  will  await  her. 

She  will  come. 

I  will  await  you  also— Camarado, 

I,  Walt  Whitman— will  await  you.     I  honor 

you,  'Gene. 
I  salute  you.  Au  revoir.  Auf  wiedersehen.  So 

long. 

Debs:  So  long.    I  will  come. 

{TTie  Spirit  of  Whitman  vanishes — 
The  Spirit  of  Lincoln  appears.) 

Linooln:  They  told  me  that  the  old  Slave-Power  had 
put 

A  man  in  jail  who  looked  like  me. 

I  thought  I'd  come  and  sympathize. 

My  name  is  Lincoln— they  used  to  call  me  Abe. 

I  like  that  best  It  speaks  of  love- 
Love  is  the  only  path  there  is  between  the 
hearts  of  men. 

When  I  was  a  long-legged  boy  in  the  Ken- 
tucky mountains. 

The  forests,  gorges,  cliffs  and  streams  kept 
men  apart— 

Except  for  the  little  narrow  trails  that  ran 
from  hearth  to  hearth — 

I  used  to  think  that  they  were  the  threads  of 
love 

That  made  life  worth  while. 

And  afterward,  I  never  quite  forgot  that 
thought. 

So  you're  in  jail  because  you  spoke  for  free- 
dom— 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  85 

That's  not  new. 

When  I  remember  how  the  world's  big  men 

Who  set  men  free  were  always  put  in  jail 

I'm  sorry  I  was  never  jailed. 

There  is  something  there  I  guess  I  missed ; 

I  never  had  a  college  education. 

There  were  plenty  who'd  have  liked  to  have 

seen  me  in  jail 
Or  hung— but  we  rebels  then  had  grown  too 

strong. 
You  know  we  were  ihe  rebels— Our  Southern 

brethren 
Were  standpatters  against  the  revolution. 
They   fought    for   property,   we   fought   for 

men— 
The  same  fight  you  are  making  now. 
John  Brown  was  jailed. 
The  rope  that  strangled  him  was  the  same 

power 
That  put  you  here. 

(Voices  in  chorus  singing  faintly: 

"John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 

grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 

grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the 

grave- 
But  his  soul  is  marching  on—") 

That  was  the  boys  in  ragged  shoes  and  faded 
imiforms 

Marching  up  Pennsylvania  Avenue. 

Your  soldiers  of  Freedom  are  not  in  your  ar- 
mies but  your  jails. 

So,  'Gene,  you  are  in  jail— I'll  call  you  'Gene 

I  guess  you  like  that  best. 


86  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

I  knew  a  man,  in  Illinois,  was  put  in  jail 

Because  he  said  he  could  cure  St.  Vitus'  dance 

With  milkweed  juice. 

He  did  it  too,  ....  sometimes. 

Say,  'Gene,  perhaps  you  ran  against  St.  Vitus' 

dance. 
When  I  was  solitary  in  the  solemn  nights. 
My  load  too  big  for  sleep. 
Two  things  would  haunt  me— 
A  slave  mother,  on  the  block,  sold  from  her 

clinging  child — 
And  the  mothers  of  those  boys  dead  on  the 

field- 
Mothers  in  city  homes,  in  farmhouse  kitchens— 
(  Mothers  going  about  in  silence,  thinking  of 

those  sons 
As  little  babies  in  their  arms,  and  every  mo- 
ment since 
Until  they  kissed  them  on  their  way — 
And  now,  never  another  kiss. 
Then  when  it  seemed    more    than    my  heart 

could  bear 
I  saw  the  slave  mother  on  the  block: 
Sold,  body  and  soul,  for  money  to  the  highest 
.      bid. 
And  all  those  dear  dead  sons  upon  the  bloody 

field 
Seemed  as  tired  boys  restfully  asleep 
Upon  the  Altar  of  the  World. 
This  war  was  not  a  war  like  that 
You  knew  it,  'Gene. 

Twist  it  and  turn  it,  any  side,  every  side, 
It  was  the  masters'  war  to  keep  men  slaves. 
We  fought  to  strike  the  chains  from  poor  black 

men; 
But  there  are  chains  eyes  cannot  see, 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 


87 


Heavy  to  drag  men  down  to  poverty,  dis- 
ease and  crime. 

You  fight  to  strike  those  shackles  off, 

That  mothers,  black  or  white,  shall  not  be  put 
up  for  sale. 

That  little  children  shall  have  a  chance  to  play. 

Stand  up,  'Gene. 

Yes,  we  are  just  about  one  height. 

You're  better  looking— but  not  much. 

I  have  the  advantage  of  you  in  hair. 

Give  me  your  hand — 

Stand  eye  to  eye  with  me— 

They  call  me  "The  Emancipator." 

'Gene,  I  pass  the  title  on  to  you. 

Debs:  Not  to  me— There  are  so    many    who   have 

done  more; 
So  many  lie  tonight  in  prisons; 
Many  of  them  boys— brave  boys — 
And  over  those  prisons  floats  your  flag. 
The  stars  and  stripes. 

Lincoln:       Who  is  now  your  President? 
What  is  his  name? 


Dess:  I  have  forgot, 

I  remember  only  you. 

Lincoln:        Eemember  John  Brown,  his  soul  is  marching 

on; 
Remember  those    dead    sons    who  sleep   on 

Freedom's  field, 
They  have  no  children,  no  brothers,  only  you 

and  yours, 
God  bless  you,  'Gene. 
I  will  await  you. 


88  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

Debs:  I  will  come. 

(Spirit  of  Lincoln  vanishes; 
Spirit  of  Christ  appears.) 

Christ:  Blessed  are  the  Peacemakers. 

Debs:  Do  you  think  so? 

Christ:  If  the  World  hate  you,  you  know 

That  it  hated  me  before  it  hated  you. 
If  they  persecuted  me  they  will  also  perse- 
cute you— 
But  all  these  things  they  will  do  unto  you 
For  my  name's  sake  because  they  know  not 

Him  that  sent  me. 
If  I  had  not  come  and  spoken  they  had  not 

had  sin— 
But  now  they  have  no  cloak  for  their  sin, 
They  hate  both  you  and  the  Father  that  sent 

you 
For  he  that  hateth  me  hateth  my  Father  also. 

Debs:  Are  you  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  Christ,  who 

was  crucified  in  Jerusalem? 

Christ:  I  am  he— and  crucified  not  in  Jerusalem  only 

But  many  times. 

And  many  times  sold  for  pieces  of  silver. 
Not  only  Judas  has  kissed  me  to  betray  me 
But  bishops  and  priests. 
Those  who  pray  on  the  street  comers 
And  shout  loudest  in  the  temples 
Have  put  a  sword  into  my  hand 
And  hate  in  my  mouth. 
Woe  unto  them.  Hypocrites. 
They  have  defiled  the  sacred  vessels 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS  89 

And  cover  up  their  filth  with  lilies; 

Shouting  Patriotism— Freedom. 

Woe  unto  them,  Pharisees,  hypocrites ; 

Outwardly  appearing  righteous 

But  inwardly  full  of  hypocrisy  and  iniquity. 

They  say,  "If  we  had  been  in  the  days  of  otir 

fathers 
We  would  not  have  been  partakers  with  them 

in  the  blood  of  the  prophets." 
Wherefore  they  be  witnesses    against    them- 
selves 
That  they  are  the  children    of    them    which 

killed  the  prophets- 
Serpents,  generation  of  vipers. 
0  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  thou  that  killest  the 

prophets. 
Well  do  I  remember  that  day  in  Jerusalem. 
It  was  hot  and  the  air  shivered  against  the 

white  wall  of  the  temple. 
The   sky   came   down   close   and   the   crowd 

sweated  ia  the  streets 
As  they  crushed  about  me  crying 
"To  PUate.    To  Pilate— Crucify  hun,  crucify 

him." 
Pilate  sat  in  his  curule  chair,  the  Roman  eagle 
Carved  high  on  its  back,  watching  the  world. 
Two  slaves  sprinkled  water  and  one 
Fanned  Pilate  who  coldly  waited. 
The  Roman  guard  looked  insolently  on  tiie 

mob 
Of  Jews  that  pushed  and  foamed  below. 
Beside  me  stood  Barabbas,  a  robber. 
At  another  time  he  would  have  been  a  mark 

to  show  their  children. 
But  now  all  eyes  followed  the  long  finger  of 
Caiaphas,  the  High  Priest,  accusing  me; 


90  DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 

Around  him,  Annas  and  the  Elders, 
The  men  of  wealth  and  authority. 
Caiaphas  said,  "This  man  is  an  agitator, 
A  perverter  of  the  people,  a  stirrer  up  of 

discontent, 
A   blasphemer— He   would   change   our   cus- 
toms." 
And  when  Pilate    called    the  witnesses    and 

questioned  them 
And  me  also,  and  adjudged 
"I  find  no  fault  in  him," 
The  men  of  wealth  and  power  shouted, 
"Crucify  him,  crucify  him." 
When  again  Pilate  said 
"I  find  no  fault  in  him.    I  will  release 
Him  to  you  according  to  the  custom  of  your 

feast," 
The  High  Priest  and  the  Elders,  the  men 
Of  wealth  and  authority,  cried  out 
Crucify  him,  crucify  him— Release  to  us  Ba- 

rabbas." 
And  the  crowd  cried 
"Crucify  him,   crucify  him.    Release   to   us 

Barabbas." 
Always,  'Gene,  it  is  Hie  robbers  who  are  re- 
leased. 
Always  the  mob  cries  out  for  its  robbers. 

Debs:  And  you  are  the  Crucified  One? 

Christ  :  In  Jerusalem  that  day  they  crucified  my  body. 

But  today  they  crucify  my  soul. 
Not  every  one  that  saith  unto  me  "Lord,  Lord" 
Shall  enter  my  kingdom— but  those  who  do 
The  will  of  my  Father  as  you  are  doing. 
If  you  love  not  the  little  children 
You  are  an  oppressor— Even  as  Herod. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  91 

Are  you  an  Agitator? 

Are  you  a  perverter  of  the  people? 

Are  you  a  stirrer  up  of  discontent? 

Was  not  even  I  the  same? 

And  the  prophets? 

I  will  call  the  prophets  to  be  as  witnesses  be^ 
fore  you 

And  to  testify— Out  of  discontent  cometh  re- 
demption. 

Isaiah ! 

(The  Spirit  of  Isaiah  appears.) 

Isaiah:  What  mean  ye  that  ye  beat  my  people  to 

pieces, 
And  grind  the  faces  of  the  poor? 
Ye  have  eaten  up  the  vineyards, 
The  spoil  of  the  poor  is  in  your  houses. 
Woe  unto  them  that  join  house  to  house 
And  lay  field  to  field  till  there  be  no  place  for 

the  poor, 
That  they  may  be  placed  alone  in  the  land 
And  the  poor  be  wasted. 
Woe  unto  them  that  decree  unrighteous  decrees 
And  that  write  grievousness  that  thq^  have 

prescribed. 
To  turn  the  needy  from  judgment  and  to  take 

away 
The  right  from  the  poor; 
That  widows  may  be  their  prey  and  that 
They  may  rob  the  fatherless. 
Woe,  woe  to  them  that  hoard  the  com 
And  reap  down  the  substance  of  the  poor. 
The  lofty  city  shall  be  laid  low  even  to  the 

ground. 
He  bringeth   it  to  the  dust,  tiie  foot  shall 

tread  it  down. 


92 


DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 


Christ  ; 


Even  the  feet  of  the  poor  and  the  steps  of  the 
needy. 

{The  Spirit  of  Isaiah  vanishes.) 
Hosea  1 


{The  Spirit  of  Hosea  appears.) 

Hosea:  The  people  are  destroyed  for  lack  of  knowl- 

edge. 

Of  their  silver  and  gold  they  have  made 
idols,— 

They  have  sown  to  the  wind  and  they  shall 
reap  to  the  whirlwind. 

{The  Spirit  of  Hosea  vanishes.) 

Christ  :  Amos. 

{The  Spirit  of  Amos  appears.) 

Amos:  Forasmuch  therefore  as  your  trading  is  upon 

the  poor 
And  you  take  from  him  his  measure  of  wheat, 
Though  you  have  built  for  yourselves  palaces 

of  hewn  stone. 
You  shall  not  dwell  in  them. 
Though  you  have  planted  pleasant  vineyards. 
You  shall  not  drink  the  wine  of  them. 
I  know  your  manifold  transgressions, 
Your  mighty  sins — 
You  afflict  the  just, 
You  take  a  bribe, 

You  turn  aside  the  poor  from  their  rights, 
You  seek  to  put  away  the  evil  day 
But  you  cause  the  seat  of  violence  to  come 

near. 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  93 

You  lie  upon  beds  of  ivory  and  stretch  your- 
selves 

Upon  your  couches  and  eat  tiie  lambs  of  the 
flock 

And  the  calves  out  of  the  midst  of  the  stall. 

You  chant  to  the  sound  of  the  viol 

And  invent  to  yourselves  instruments  of  music. 

You  drink  wine  in  bowls  and  anoint  your- 
selves with 

The  chief  ointments: 

But  you  are  not  grieved  for  the  affliction  of 
your  brother; 

Therefore  now  you  shall  go  captive, 

With  the  first  of  them  that  go  captive, 

And  the  banquet  of  them  that  stretched  them- 
selves 

Shall  be  removed. 

{The  Spirit  of  Amos  vanishes.) 

Christ:  Eugene,  you  are  of  the  prophets 

And  you  shall  be  stoned  for  my  sake. 

But  peace  I  leave  with  you— 

My  peace  I  give  unto  you. 

Not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto  you. 

Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled, 

Neither  let  it  be  afraid. 

{The  Spirit  of  Christ  vanishes.  Debs 
stands  in  the  moonlight;  slowly  he  lifts  his 
arms  and  stretches  himself  so  that  his  arms 
are  outstretched  as  if  on  a  cross — The  cell 
grows  dark.) 


94      DEBS  AND   THE  POETS 
EUGENE  V.  DEBS 

BY  DOUGLAS  ROBSON 

This  poem  was  received  too  late  for  its  proper  place  in  the 
book.  T!he  author  is  a  young  Scotchman,  miner,  steel  worker, 
poet,  playwright  and  producer  of  plays. 

"Why  are  the  people  waitin'?"  said  the  brake- 
man  up  ahead; 
"To  see  us  start,  to  see  us  start,"  the  train  con- 
ductor said; 
"What  makes  you  look  so  gloomy?"  said  the 

brakeman  up  ahead; 
"I'm  dreadin'  what  I've  got  to  do,"  the  train 
conductor  said. 
"For  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison,  for  sedition, 

so  they  say. 
He's  said  good  by  to  home  an'  friends,  he'll 

soon  be  on  his  way. 
It's  ten  long  years  behind  the  bars,  the  price 

he  has  to  pay 
An'    we're    takin'    Debs    to    prison    in    the 
momin'." 

"What  makes  them  cheer  so  wildly?"  said  the 

brakeman  up  ahead, 
"It's  Eugene  Debs  that's  drawin'  near,"  the  train 

conductor  said; 
"What  noise  is  that  they're  makin'?"  said  the 

brakeman  up  ahead; 
"They're  singing  of  the  Marseillaise,"  the  train 

conductor  said. 

"By  courtesy  International  Song  Publishers,  Chicago." 


DEBS  AND   THE  POETS  95 

"For  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison  an'  we 
haven't  long  to  wait, 

The  people  crowd  around  him  there, 
a-standin'  at  the  gate. 

An'  he's  smilin'  there  an'  shakin'  hands  re- 
gardless of  his  fate, 

While  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison  in  the 


'In  ninety-four  I  heard  him,"  said  the  brakeman 

up  ahead; 
'He  organized  the  railroad  men,"  the  train  con- 
ductor said; 
'The  workin'  class  all  love  him,"  said  the  brake- 
man  up  ahead; 
'He's  goin'  to  prison  for  them  now,"  the  train 
conductor  said. 
"For  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison  and  how 

strange  it  must  appear. 
That  the  brakeman  an'  conductor  an'  the 

railroad  engineer. 
The  workin'  men  he  stood  for  when  the 

cause  looked  dark  and  drear. 
Now    are    takin'    Debs    to    prison    in    the 
momin'." 


'Who's  comin'  down  the  platform?"  said  the 
brakeman  up  ahead; 

'That's  Eugene  Debs,  he's  boardin'  now,"  the 
train  conductor  said; 

'He  glanced  at  me  so  kindly,"  said  the  brake- 
man up  ahead; 


96  DEBS   AND    THE   POETS 

"  'Good  morning  BROTHER,'  were  his  words," 
the  train  conductor  said. 

"An'  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison  an'  we've 
left  the  town  behind, 

We're  takin'  Debs  to  prison,  for  the  railroad 
men  are  blind. 

An'  the  damned  disgrace  is  on  us  for  betray- 
ing of  our  kind. 

While  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison  in  the 
momin'." 

"What's  that  that  clouds  the  sunlight?"  said  the 

brakeman  up  ahead; 
"The  shadow  of  a  cruel  wrong,"  the  train  con- 
ductor said; 
"What  noise   is   that  that  follows?"   said   the 

brakeman  up  ahead; 
"The  murmur  of  the  workin'  class,"  the  train 
conductor  said. 
"For  we're  takin'  Debs  to  prison,  but  the 

shadow's  drawin'  nigh. 
An'  the  voices  of  the  workers  ring  across  the 

brooding  sky. 
An'  the  world  will  have  to  answer  when  they 

ask  the  reason  why 
We  are  takin'  Debs  to  prison  in  the  mornin'." 


THE  TREATMENT  OF  DEBS  IN  PRISON 

In  August,  1919,  the  following  telegram  was  sent  to 
President  Wilson: 

"I  beg  you  for  inunediate  action  in  the  matter  of 
amnesty  for  Debs,  an  old  man  in  weakening  health,  con- 
fined fourteen  consecutive  hours  daily  in  cell  in  midsummer 
of  southern  climate.  This  means  practically  death  sen- 
tence, inflicted  upon  a  man  of  finest  sensibility  for  in- 
dubitably sincere  conscientious  objection  to  war.  This  is 
causing  truly  frightful  embitterment  in  entire  radical 
movement.  If  Debs  should  be  allowed  to  die  in  jail,  I  be- 
lieve that  a  peaceable  solution  of  social  problem  would  be 
impossible  in  America.  Please  do  not  misconstrue  this 
statement,  I  am  appealing  to  you  as  a  statesman  to  avoid  a 
calamity  which  I  clearly  foresee.  I  am  also  appealing  to 
your  heart  for  a  man  older  than  yourself,  who  has  won  the 
affectionate  regard  of  millions  of  the  plain  people." 

Upton  Sinclair. 

Upon  receipt  of  this  message  President  Wilson  re- 
ferred the  matter  to  the  Attorney  General,  who  wired  to 
the  warden  of  Atlanta  penitentiary  as  follows: 

"Representations  have  been  made  to  me  that  Eugene 
V.  Debs  is  being  confined  in  a  cell  for  fourteen  consecutive 
hours  daily.    Is  this  true?    What  are  the  facts." 

A.  Mitchell  Palmer,  Attorney  General. 

To  this  the  warden  replied : 

"Claim  that  Eugene  V.  Debs  is  being  confined  to  cell 
fourteen  consecutive  hours  daily  substantially  correct. 
Letter  explaining  details  mailed  you  today." 

Fred  G.  Zerbst^  Warden. 

The  warden's  letter  which  followed  was  a  long  and 
detailed  explanation  of  the  prison  regime.  The  substance 
of  it  was  that  the  United  States  government  had  failed  to 

97 


98  DEBS   AND   THE  POETS 

provide  for  a  sufficient  number  of  guards  to  take  care  of 
the  prisoners  when  outside  of  their  cells.  It  was  a  question 
of  either  depriving  the  guards  of  an  eight  hour  day,  or  of 
keeping  the  prisoners  locked  up  in  their  cells  from  five 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon  until  seven  o'clock  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

"By  dividing  the  guard  force  into  three  working  shifts 
of  eight  hours  each,  and  providing  for  a  sufficient  number 
of  guards  to  make  two  of  these  shifts  large  and  one  skeleton, 
instead  of  one  large  and  two  skeleton  as  at  present,  much 
more  freedom  could  be  accorded  prisoners  and  many  other 
advantages  would  accrue  therefrom.  However,  it  has  never 
been  possible  to  secure  the  additional  guards  necessary  for 
this  purpose,  altho  many  efforts  in  this  direction  have  been 
made." 

The  warden  went  on  to  explain  that  Debs  was  in  good 
health,  and  got  his  physical  exercise  by  working  in  the 
clothing  storeroom  of  the  prison.  He  had  been  offered  the 
privilege  of  an  assignment  to  the  hospital,  but  had  re- 
fused it. 

A  copy  of  the  warden's  letter  and  the  two  telegrams 
were  forwarded  to  Upton  Sinclair  by  the  President,  with  a 
letter  stating  that  they  were  "self-explanatory."  In  answer 
the  following  telegram  was  sent  to  the  President: 

"Your  communication  received.  I  assume  I  may  quote 
it.  If  not,  kindly  wire  collect.  The  fact  that  Debs  con- 
siders it  his  duty  to  refuse  concessions  and  to  share  treat- 
ment of  all  prisoners  does  not  in  any  way  modify  facts  set 
forth  in  my  telegram  to  you.  Debs  is  a  man  of  conscience, 
not  a  criminal.  The  war  is  over,  the  blind  angers  of  war 
should  be  allowed  to  die  in  the  hearts  of  men.  The  case  of 
Debs  is  unquestionably  one  for  executive  clemency,  and  I 
again  appeal  to  both  your  heart  and  your  intellect." 

Upton  Sinclaib. 

Up  to  date  of  writing,  fourteen  months  later,  the  above 
message  has  been  left  unanswered. 


Those  who  wish  further  information  about 
Eugene  V.  Debs  and  his  case  are  referred  to 
"The  Life  of  Debs"  by  David  Karsner,  pub- 
lished by  Boni  &  Liveright,  New  York,  price  $1.50 
cloth;  paper-bound  edition  in  preparation.  Also 
to  a  small  book,  "The  Life  of  Debs"  by  Louis 
Kopelin,  Appeal  to  Reason,  Girard,  Kansas, 
twenty-five  cents.  The  Appeal  also  publishes 
"The  Deb's  White  Book,"  containing  all  the 
documents  in  the  Debs'  case.  The  speech  of 
Debs  before  the  court,  many  times  mentioned  in 
this  book,  may  be  obtained  from  the  National 
Office  of  the  Socialist  Party,  220  South  Ashland 
Blvd.,  Chicago,  Ills. 


99 


The  following  pages  contain  advertise- 
ments of  books  by  the  publisher 
of  "Debs  and  the  Poets." 


A  Proposition  to  Reprint 

the  Early  Books  of  Upton  Sinclair 

All  the  books  written  by  me  from  1901  to  1911  are  now  out 
of  print  and  unobtainable.  These  include  "The  Jungle,"  whiclx 
was  translated  into  seventeen  languages  and  is  the  best 
known  American  novel  outside  the  United  States;  "Manassas," 
which  Jack  London  called  "the  best  Civil  War  book  I've  read;" 
"The  Industrial  Republic."  which  the  Countess  of  Warwick 
called  the  best  book  on  Socialism  ever  written;  "Samuel  the 
Seeker,"  which  Frederik  van  Eeden,  the  Dutch  writer,  con- 
sidered my  best  novel;  "The  Metropolis,"  and  "The  Money- 
changers," which  caused  a  sensation  in  their  day;  "The  Jour- 
nal of  Arthur  Stirling,"  "Love's  Pilgrimage,"  "Plays  of 
Protest,"  "The  Fasting  Cure,"  etc.      . 

To  reprint  the.<?e  books  and  keep  them  In  stock  means  a 
working  capital  of  about  $2,000  per  book.  I  can  raise  this 
capital,  provided  I  have  an  assured  market  for  the  books. 
Therefore,  I  propose  to  organize  what  for  convenience  I  call 

the  Sinclair  Subscribers 

I  propose  to  publish  three  or  four  books  per  year.  One, 
and  possibly  two,  will  be  new  books;  the  rest  will  be  reprints. 
Each  subscriber  agrees  to  take  a  copy  of  each  book  as  pub- 
lished, at  the  price  of  $1.20  cloth  or  sixty  cents  paper.  Each 
book  will  be  sent  with  bill,  and  the  subscriber  will  remit 
promptly,  and  notify  of  any  change  of  address.  You  may, 
of  course,  subscribe  to  three,  or  ten,  or  twenty-flve  copies 
of  each  book,  at  the  quantity  rates  quoted  for  "The  Brass 
Check"  and  "100%."  You  may  withdraw  from  the  arrange- 
ment at  any  time  by  giving  notice.  The  books  published  in 
1921  will  be  (1)  "The  Jungle;"  (2)  "The  Coal  War,"  a  new 
novel,  sequel  to  Kiner  Coal;"  O"*  "The  Monevch angers," 
a  story  dealing  with  Wall  Street  and  the  panic  of  1907;  and, 
probably  "The  Footblnders,"  a  book  on  education,  companion 
volume  to  "The  Profits  of  Religion"  and  "The  Brass  Check." 

If  you  care  to  come  In  on  the  above  plan,  please  write 
me  a  postcard  as  follows: 

"Enter  me  as  a  subscriber,  sending  one  copy  of  each  book, 
cloth,"  or  "three  copies  of  each  book,  paper,"  or  whatever 
it  may  be  that  you  wish  to  subscribe  for.  Give  name  and 
full  address,  write  plainly,  and  mail  to  Upton  Sinclair,  Pas- 
adena, California. 


A  New  Novel  by  Upton  Sinclair 

100% 

THE  STORY  OF  A  PATRIOT 

WOULD  you  like  to  go  behind  the  scenes  and  see 
the  "invisible  government"  of  your  country  sav- 
ing you  from  the  Bolsheviks  and  the  Reds  ?  Would  you 
like  to  meet  the  secret  agents  and  provocateurs  of  "Big 
Business,"  to  know  what  they  look  like,  how  they  talk  and 
what  they  are  doing  to  make  the  world  safe  for  democ- 
racy? Several  of  these  gentlemen  have  been  haunting 
the  home  of  Upton  Sinclair  during  the  past  three  years 
and  he  has  had  the  idea  of  turning  the  tables  and  investi- 
gating the  investigators.  He  has  put  one  of  them,  Peter 
Gudge  by  name,  into  a  book,  together  with  Peter's  lady- 
loves, and  his  wife,  and  his  boss  and  a  whole  group  of  his 
fellow-agents  and  their  employers. 

The  hero  of  this  book  is  a  red-blooded,  100%  Ameri- 
can, a  "he-man"  and  no  mollycoddle.  He  begins  with 
the  Mooney  case,  and  goes  through  half  a  dozen  big  cases 
of  which  you  have  heard.  His  story  is  a  fact-story  of 
America  from  1916  to  1920,  and  will  make  a  bigger  sen- 
sation than  "The  Jungle."  Albert  Rhys  Williams,  author 
of  "Lenin"  and  "In  the  Qaws  of  the  German  Eagle," 
read  the  MS.  and  wrote: 

"This  is  the  first  novel  of  yours  that  I  have  read  through 
with  real  interest.  It  is  your  most  timely  work,  and  is  bound  to 
make  a  sensation.  I  venture  that  you  will  have  even  more 
trouble  than  you  had  with  'The  Brass  Check' — in  getting  the 
books  printed  fast  enough," 

Single  copy,  60c  postpaid;  three  copies,  $1.50;  ten 
copies,  $4.50.  By  freight  or  express,  collect,  25  copies 
at  40c  per  copy;  100  copies  at  38c;  500  copies  at  36c; 
1,000  copies  at  35c.  Single  copy,  cloth,  $1.20  postpaid; 
three  copies,  $3.(X) ;  ten  copies,  $9.00.  By  freight  or  ex- 
press, collect,  25  copies  at  80c  per  copy;  100  copies  at 
76c;  500  copies  at  72c;  1,000  copies  at  70c. 

UPTON  SINCLAIR       -       Pasadena,  California 


Who  Owns  The  Press,  and  Why? 

When  yoa  read  your  daily  paper,  are  you  reading  facts  or 
propaganda?    And  whose  propaganda? 

Who  furnishes  the  raw  material  for  your  thoughts  about 
life?     Is  it  honest  material? 

No  man  can  ask  more  important  questions  than  these;  and 
here  for  the  first  time  the  questions  are  answered  in  a  book. 

THE  BRASS  CHECK 

A  Study  of  American  Jonrnalism 
By  UPTON  SINCLAIR 

Read  the  record  of  this  book  to  August,  1920:  Published  in 
February,  1920;  first  edition,  23,000  paper-bound  copies,  sold 
in  two  weeks.  Second  edition,  21,000  paper-bound,  sold  before 
it  could  be  put  to  press.  Third  edition,  15,000,  and  fourth 
edition,  12,000,  sold.  Fifth  edition,  15,000,  in  press.  Paper 
for  sixth  edition,  110,000,  just  shipped  from  the  mill.  The 
third  and  fourth  editions  are  printed  on  "number  one  news;" 
the  sixth  will  be  printed  on  a  carload  of  lightweight  brown 
wrapping  paper — all  we  could  get  in  a  hurry. 

The  first  cloth  edition,  16,500  copies,  all  sold;  a  carload 
of  paper  for  the  second  edition,  40,000  copies,  has  just  reached 
our  printer — and  so  we  dare  to  advertise! 

Ninety  thousand  copies  of  a  book  sold  in  six  months — 
and  published  by  the  author,  with  no  advertising,  and  only 
a  few  scattered  reviews!  What  this  means  is  that  the  Amer- 
ican people  want  to  know  the  truth  about  their  newspapers. 
They  have  found  the  truth  in  "The  Brass  Check"  and  they 
are  calling  for  it  by  telegraph.  Put  these  books  on  your 
counter,  and  you  will  see,  as  one  doctor  wrote  us — "they 
melt  away  like  the  snow." 

From  the  pastor  of  the  Community  Church,  New  York: 

"I  am  writing  to  thank  you  for  sending  me  a  copy 

of   your   new    book,    "The    Brass    Check."    Although    it 

arrived  only  a  few   days   ago,   I   have  already   read  it 

through,  every  word,  and  have  loaned  it  to  one  of  my 

colleagues  for  reading.     The  book  is  tremendous.  I  have 

never  read  a  more  strongly  consistent  argument  or  one 

so  formidably  buttressed   by   facts.     You  have   proved 

your  case  to  the  handle.     I  again  take  satisfaction  in 

saluting  you  not  only  as  a  great  novelist,  but  as  the 

ablest   pamphleteer   in    America   today.      I    am    already 

passing    around    the    word    in    my    church    and    taking 

orders   for  the  book." — John  Haynes   Holmes. 

•**8  £Mf^*'     Slngrle  copy,  paper,  60o  postpaid;  three  copies, 

91.50;   ten   copies,    $4.50.      Single   copy,    cloth,    $1.20 

post-paid;  three  copies,  $3^)0;  ten  copies,  99.00 

Address:    UPTON  SINCLAIR,  Pasadena,  Cal. 


A    book   which  has  been  absolutely   boycotted   by   the  literary 
reviews  of  America. 

THE  PROFITS 
OF  RELIGION 

By  Upton  Sincxair 

A  STUDY  of  Supernaturalism  as  a  Source  of  Income  and  a 
Shield  to  Privilege;  the  first  examination  in  any  language 
of  institutionalized  religion  from  the  economic  point  of 
view.  "Has  the  labour  as  well  as  the  merit  of  breaking  virgin 
soil,"  writes  Joseph  McCabe.  The  book  has  had  practically  no 
advertising  and  only  two  or  three  reviews  in  radical  publications ; 
yet  forty  thousand  copies  have  been  sold  in  the  first  year. 

-  From  the  Rev.  John  Haynes  Holmes:  "I  must  confess  that  it  has  fairly 
made  me  writhe  to  read  these  pages,  not  because  they  are  untrue  or  un- 
fair, but  on  the  contrary,  because  I  know  them  to  be  the  real  facts.  I 
love  the  church  as  I  love  my  home,  and  therefore  it  is  no  pleasant  expe- 
rience to  be  made  to  face  such  a  story  as  this  which  you  have  told.  It 
had  to  be  done,  however,  and  I  am  glad  you  have  done  it,  for  my  interest 
in  the  church,  after  all,  is  more  or  less  incidental,  whereas  my  interest  in 
religion  is  a  fundamental  thing.  .  .  .  Let  me  repeat  again  that  I  feel 
that  you  have  done  us  all  a  service  in  the  writing  of  this  book.  Our 
churches  today,  like  those  of  ancient  Palestine,  are  the  abode  of  Pharisees 
and  scribes.  It  is  as  spiritual  and  helpful  a  thing  now  as  it  was  in 
Jesus'  day  for  that  fact  to  be  revealed." 

From  Luther  Burbank:  "No  one  has  ever  told  'the  truth,  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth'  more  faithfxilly  than  Upton  Sinclair  in 
'The  Profits  of  Religion.'  " 

From  Louis  Untermeyer:  "Let  me  add  my  quayering  alto  to  the  chorus 
of  applause  of  'The  Profits  of  Religion.'  It  is  something  more  than  a 
book — it  is  a  Work  I" 

315  pages.  Single  copy,  paper,  60c  postpaid ;  three  copies,  $1.50 ; 
ten  copies,  $4.50.  ^  By  freight  or  express,  collect,  25  copies  at  40c 
per  copy,  100  copies  at  38c ;  500  copies  at  36c ;  1,000  copies  at  35c. 
Single  copy,  cloth,  $1.20  postpaid ;  three  copies,  $8.00 ;  ten  copies, 
$9.00.  By  freight  or  express,  collect,  25  copies  at  80c  per  copy; 
100  copies  at  76c;  500  copies  at  72c;  1,000  copies  at  70c. 

UPTON  SINCLAIR  -  Pasadena,  California 


THE   JUNGLE 

By  UPTON  SINCLAIR 

This  novel,  first  published  in  1906,  caused  an  international 
sensation.  It  was  the  best  selling  book  in  the  United  States 
for  a  year;  also  in  Great  Britain  and  its  colonies.  It  was 
translated  into  seventeen  languages,  and  caused  an  investiga- 
tion by  President  Roosevelt,  and  action  by  Congress.  The 
book  has  been  out  of  print  for  ten  years,  and  is  now  reprinted 
by  the  author,  at  a  lower  price  than  when  first  published, 
although  the  cost  of  manufacture  has  since  more  than  doubled. 

I  never  expected  to  read  a  serial.  I  am  reading  "The  Jungle," 
and  I  should  be  afraid  to  trust  myself  to  tell  how  it  affects  me. 
It  is  a  great  work.  I  have  a  feeling  that  you  yourself  will  be 
dazed  some  day  by  the  excitement  about  it.  It  is  impossible 
that  such  a  power  should  not  be  felt.  It  is  so  simple,  so  true, 
so  tragic  and  so  human.  It  is  so  eloquent,  and  yet  so  exact.  I 
must  restrain  myself  or  you  may  misunderstand. — David  Graham 
Phillips. 

In  this  fearful  story  the  horrors  of  industrial  slavery  are  as 
vividly  drawn  as  if  by  lightning.  It  marks  an  epoch  in  revolu- 
tionary literature. — Eugene  V.  Deis. 

"Not  since  Byron  awoke  one  morning  to  find  himself  famous 
has  there  been  such  an  example  of  world-wide  celebrity  won  in  a 
day  by  a  book  as  has  come  to  Upton  Sinclair." — New  ¥ork  Evening 
World. 

"It  is  a  book  that  does  for  modern  industrial  slavery  what 
Unde  Tom's  Oabin  did  for  black  slavery.  But  the  work  is  done 
far  I  tter  and  more  accurately  in  The  Jungle  than  in  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin." — Arthur  Brisbane,  in  the  New  York  Evening 
Journal. 


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100  copies  at  76c;  500  copies  at  72c;  1,000  copies  at  70c 

UPTON  SINCLAIR 

Pasadena,   California 


JIMMIE  HIGGINS 

«  T  IMMIE  HIGGINS"  is  the  fellow  who  does  the  hard  work 
I  in  the  job  of  waking  up  the  workers.  Jimmie  hates  war — 
all  war — and  fights  against  it  with  heart  and  soul.  But 
war  comes,  and  Jimmie  is  drawn  into  it,  whether  he  will  or  no. 
He  has  many  adventures — strikes,  jails,  munitions  explosions, 
draft-boards,  army-camps,  submarines  and  battles.  "Jimmie 
Higgins  Goes  to  War"  at  last,  and  when  he  does  he  holds  back 
the  German  army  and  wins  the  battle  of  "Chatty  Terry."  But 
then  they  send  him  into  Russia  to  fight  the  Bolsheviki,  and  there 
"Jimmie  Higgins  Votes  for  Democracy." 

A  picture  of  the  American  working-class  movement  during 
four  years  of  world-war;  all  wings  of  the  movement,  all  the 
various  tendencies  and  clashing  impulses  are  portrayed.  Cloth, 
$1.20  postpaid. 

From  "The  Candidate" :  I  have  just  finished  reading  the  first  install- 
ment of  "Jimmie  Higgins"  and  I  am  delighted  with  it.  It  is  the  beginning 
of  a  great  story,  a  etory  that  will  be  translated  into  many  languages  and 
be  read  by  eager  and  interested  millions  all  over  the  world.  I  feel  that 
your  art  will  lend  itself  readily  to  "Jimmie  Higgins,"  and  that  you  will 
be  at  your  best  in  placing  this  dear  little  comrade  where  he  belongs  in  the 
Socialist  movement.  The  opening  story  of  your  chapter  proves  that  you 
know  him  intimately.  So  do  I  and  I  love  him  with  all  my  heart,  even 
as  you  do.  He  has  done  more  for  me  than  I  shall  ever  be  able  to  do  for 
him.  Almost  anyone  can  be  "The  Candidate,"^  and  almost  anyone  will  do 
for  a  speaker,  but  it  takes  the  rarest  of  qualities  to  produce  a  "Jimmie 
Higgins."  You  are  painting  a  superb  portrait  of  our  "Jimmie"  and  I  con- 
gratulate you.  SuGENE  V.  Debs. 

From  Mrs.  Jack  London:  Jimmie  Higgins  is  immense.  He  is  real,  and 
so  are  the  other  characters.  I'm  sure  you  rather  fancy  Comrade  Dr. 
Service!  The  beginning  of  the  narrative  is  delicious  with  an  irresistible 
loving  humor;  and  as  a  change  comes  over  it  and  the  Big  Medicine  begins 
to  workj  one  realizes  by  the  light  of  1918,  what  you  have  undertaken  to 
accomplish.  The  sure  touch  of  your  cenius  is  here,  Upton  Sinclair,  and 
I  wish  Jack  London  might  read  and  enjoy.  Charmian  I^ondon. 

From  a  Socialist  Artist:  Jimmie  Higgins'  start  is  a  master  portrayal  of 
that  character.  I  have  been  out  so  long  on  these  lecture  tours  that  I  can 
appreciate  the  picture.  I  am  waiting  to  see  how  the  story  develops.  It 
starts  better  than  "King   Coal."  Ryan   Waiker. 

Price,  cloth,  $1.20  postpaid. 

UPTON  SINCLAIR,  Pasadena,  California 


OTHER    BOOKS   BY 
UPTON   SINCLAIR 

KING  COAL:  a  Novel  of  the  Colorado  coal  coun- 
try.   Cloth,  $1.20  postpaid. 

"Clear,  convincing,  complete." — Lincoln  Steffens. 

"I  wish  that  every  word  of  It  could  be  burned  deep 
into  the  heart  of  every  American." — Adolph  Germer. 

THE  CRY  FOR  JUSTICE:  an  Anthology  of  the 
Literature  of  Social  Protest,  with  an  Introduction  by 
Jack  London,  who  calls  it  "this  humanist  Holy-book." 
Thirty-two  illustrations,  891  pages,  $2.00  postpaid. 

"It  should  rank  with  the  very  noblest  works  of  all 
time.  You  could  scarcely  have  improved  on  its  contents 
— it  is  remarkable  in  variety  and  scope.  Buoyant,  but 
never  blatant,  powerful  and  passionate,  it  has  the  spirit 
of  a  challenge  and  a  battle  cry." — Louis  Untermeyer. 

"You  have  marvelously  covered  the  whole  ground. 
The  result  is  a  book  that  radicals  of  every  shade  have 
long  been  waiting  for.  You  have  made  one  that  every 
student  of  the  world's  thought — economic,  philosophic, 
artistic — has  to  have." — Reginald  Wright  Kauffman. 

SYLVIA :  a  Novel  of  the  Far  South.  Price  $1.20 
postpaid. 

SYLVIA'S  MARRIAGE:  a  sequel.  Price  $1.20 
postpaid. 

DAMAGED  GOODS :  a  Novel  made  from  the  play 
by  Brieux.    Cloth,  $1.20 ;  paper,  60  cents  postpaid. 

PLAYS  OF  PROTEST:  four  dramas.  Price  $1.20 
postpaid. 

The  above  prices  postpaid. 

UPTON  SINCLAIR      -       Pasadena,  California 


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